Excellence is a Green Lawn
by Wellies
Summary: The story in which Hermione is actually black. Come play in the sandbox with me. Slytherin AU.
1. Chapter 1

**This takes place in the 90s, but features several players from Tom Riddle's Hogwarts era. AU**

* * *

By age 21, Beverly Brown had grown quite tired of being the lightest of her sisters and the only one able to sit at the front of the bus. She was tired of drinking gingerly from colored fountains, only to be ushered to use the white one. She was tired of being treated well at the grocery. When news of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s murder reached her Kentucky hometown, Beverly had been sitting in a diner, and when the chef had grunted a short, "Serves him right," Beverly was quick to make a gracious exit, much to the bewilderment of the surrounding customers. She was tired of the light colored eyes which met hers when she stared into the mirror, tired of the pale skin, and the ringlets, and much preferred the wide nose and big lips of her grandmother. She even got tired of staring at her sisters, who, in her opinion, were far too close to what they weren't.

In short, Beverly Brown was tired of passing for white. She was desperate to see if pastures were greener elsewhere.

At first, she had tried New York, and found northern prejudice smarted just as much as the southern variety. Taking a note from Malcolm X, she had even tried moving to Africa, but found she was still too light to be black. From there, she had not stopped running, instead scraping up the last of her savings to fly to London, where she promptly enrolled in dental school.

There she met a man named Nathaniel Granger, who didn't bat an eye when she took him back to Kentucky to meet her mixed family, and didn't bat an eye the entirety of the flight back. When Beverly asked him if he had an issue with her being a mulatto, he had drawn his lips together and informed her, in no uncertain terms, that if he'd had an issue with her, then he had an issue with his half-brother, who was a delightful product of his father's extramarital affair, and that he was affronted she would assume he'd have an issue to begin with, thank you very much. Granger men do not have issues, and I intend to have you, he declared.

Shortly thereafter, the two were married, had started their own practice, and had, at Beverly's insistence, kept abreast with the racial going-ons of the States.

And then, during September, the Grangers welcomed their only little girl into the world. And Beverly was delighted to see her daughter, Hermione, had inherited Beverly's frizzy curls, full lips, Nate's brown eyes, and lovely caramel skin like Beverly's grandmother. She was an inquisitive sort of child, getting into everything. Once Nate had found their infant daughter on the top of the refrigerator, gnawing on a cold teething toy. Hermione had never hurt herself, never cried, and started walking and talking extremely young. Instead of a terrible two, toddler-Hermione demanded to have the ways of the world explained to her with calm, expectant _whats, whys, hows, _and _can I concludes. _

So it was no surprise when a nine-year-old Hermione came home with tufts of her curly, frizzy hair chopped from her mane, her latest book ripped to shreds, and, instead of crying, regarded her parents with a frown, and said, "I thought color wouldn't matter in London."

She shared how her classmates had been starting rumors, attempting to convince Hermione she was adopted, or that her mother had had an affair with "a dark, dirty man." She told her classmates she was not adopted, that her aunts, grandmother, and great-grandparents all looked like her, and that it was rude to assume she was anything but what she was, which was the only daughter of the Grangers. And honestly, didn't the lot of them have other things to do?

That was when it got ugly, and now Hermione was looking at her cut hair and her shredded copy of _Great Expectations_ and frowning at her parents, who were speechless. Nate immediately resolved to call her primary school, and Beverly decided it was time to have "the talk."

"Color does not matter. People think color matters," she started.

"And there's a difference?" Hermione asked, still holding the remnants of _Great Expectations._

"Yes. And let's find you another book, shall we?"

That satisfied Hermione for a few months before she came back, this time showing her parents a copy of _As I Lay Dying _and a tearful face. Nate had gone to ring the school, and Beverly had coaxed their daughter into her lap, pressing kisses to her temple, and saying:

"They're no better than you. They're no better than you. They're no better than you," over and over she whispered it into Hermione's hair.

The third time, it was a copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird, _a book her aunt had sent her. One look at her face and Nate had snatched his little one up, wooden and stiff as she was, cooing:

"Aunt Helen won't mind a bit, darling girl. No need to worry, yes? Some people are right mean, for no reason at all. They've no clue what they're missing. Such a strong girl, aren't you? Pro'bly better than the lot of them. They've no clue, I swear. They've no clue."

But Hermione kept coming home with shredded books, and then one day they received a call from her school, where her teacher informed them Hermione had purposefully stomped on the shoe of one her tormentors. The Grangers fought back smiles as the teacher recounted Hermione had put her nose in the air and said, "Well, if you think I'm so inferior, kindly try keeping up with me in spelling, you absolute ape." The teacher had congratulated the couple for encouraging Hermione to read, complimented their daughter's vocabulary, and suggested Hermione read _The Miseducation of the Negro _when she was older.

A couple weeks later, Beverly and Nate walked in to find Hermione flipping through a newspaper. On her writing desk was a destroyed copy of _The Phantom Tollbooth, _a book which Hermione had first discovered at six and read once a month since. When Nate asked why she hadn't said anything, Hermione had looked up, and, with a certain sort of steel, said she had determined she couldn't be bothered to care if some people treated her poorly, nor would she trouble her lovely parents with the reminder that some (and here, Hermione had given a very snobbish sniff) still ascribed to the idea of racial supremacy. The fact was, she informed her parents as she flipped to the funnies in the newpaper, she would very likely be made to deal with idiots all her life, and not a single one would ever hinder her in any significant way.

And with a snap of her fingers, _The Phantom Tollbooth _had repaired itself. Beverly and Nate watched the book straighten its binding out with twin expressions of wonder.

So, when her letter came by owl, and when her time came to put on the Sorting Hat, she told it, _It doesn't matter where you place me, I will succeed. _

_"_SLYTHERIN!"

The first time someone in her House called her "Mudblood," it was a scant two weeks into her first year. Hermione had been in the middle of practicing _Wingardium Leviosa_ in a shared Slytherin-Hufflepuff Charms class. The boy had been lanky with a shock of blond-white hair and a set of big, gray eyes. He was in Slytherin, and she had had the misfortune of sitting next to him at breakfast earlier in the day. He had scooted away as if she had rabies.

"Pardon?" she asked, brown eyes daring him to say it again. She might not know what the word meant, but she knew what a slur sounded like, the ugly way it spilled from the speaker's mouth.

She knew it well.

With a slight flick of her wand, she moved the cup of water she was levitating over the head of the blond boy, unbeknownst to him.

"Would you care to repeat yourself? I'm afraid I didn't hear you," she furthered.

"Mudbl—" The water tumbled from the cup and fell all over the hair of her offender. The cup hit his shoulder before rolling away.

After the boy wiped at his eyes, Hermione put a hand to her mouth and kept her gaze neutral. "Were you in the middle of saying a word? I didn't hear you, ehm, Abraham, was it?"

Instead of throwing a tantrum, the boy drew himself up and said, "Abraxas."

The two stared at each other before turning their heads at the announcement, "Perfect enunciation, Mister Riddle! Ten points to Slytherin."

At that, Hermione had given a huff and a flounce, returning her attention to her fallen cup.

That would not be the first time Hermione was called "Mudblood," and she found her beloved _Hogwarts: A History _was woefully unable to properly define the term. _Bloodlines: The Sociological Study of Magical Concentrations in British Populations_, however, dedicated two chapters to the moniker. Its companion book, _The Empirical Study of Magical Concentrations in British Populations_, was a collection of data which charted the frequencies of powerful wizards and witches in pureblooded English families and compared it to those same frequencies existing in those from muggle heritage. The conclusion was a marginal difference in the quality of magic; in other words, the difference between muggleborn magic and pureblood magic was negligible. Hermione immediately thought of being in her mother's arms, and her whispered assurances of Hermione's validity.

Through _Interviews/Essays: Attitudes about Blood Status, _she shortly realized muggleborn wizards were rare—a minority among European wizards. She also learned many disagreed on the definition of "pureblood;" some thought the Sacred Twenty-Eight were the only pureblooded wizards. Others believed the third generation of any wizarding family was undoubtedly pure—even if a great-grandparent had been muggleborn. She read the opinion of "blood traitors" in favor of treating muggleborns with the same respect as pure- and half-bloods. She read accounts of muggleborn witches and wizards who encountered glass ceilings at their jobs and shared difficulties with landlords, bartenders, property owners, and others.

Finally, with growing coldness, she read about Grindelwald in _The Daily Prophet. _

Hermione was a quick study; she knew coded language when she saw it. When the _Prophet _reported on the rash of mass-murders stretching across continental Europe, and stated that most, if not all of the victims were of "undeterminable patronage," and thus made it harder to inform the families of the dead without violating the Statute of Secrecy, Hermione could read in between the lines. As the madman continued his march toward Britain, the _Prophet _speculated if Albus Dumbledore would be responsible for leading the effort against him.

The second significant time she had been called "Mudblood," she had entered her dormitory to find the newest parcel from her parents had been opened, and the new bras, sanitary napkins, and painkillers had been charmed to float around Slytherin's common room. It had been in her third year, and a fifth year girl had sneered:

"You're a witch, aren't you? Dirty Mudblood."

She shoved Hermione on her way past, being sure to bump her shoulder. Hermione almost paid her no mind, instead raising her wand to recover her underwear. She didn't see the spell hurtling toward her and gave a cry when her front teeth began growing at an alarming rate.

Mouth twitching in amusement, a prefect had begrudgingly delivered her to the school nurse, and once her front teeth had been shrunk, the first question Hermione had asked the nurse was, "Do you know how to ward strangers from your belongings?"

The nurse had been somewhat surprised at Hermione's detachment from what had just occured, and replied she did not.

"Well," Hermione replied in an impatient tone, "could you tell me the name of that prefect?"

When Hermione had returned to her room, she found a letter from her parents. She had sent it after a particularly frustrating day of her muggleborn existence. Her parents, sweet as they were, had collected words of encouragement from her mother's extended family. They had been careful not to break the Statute, instead explaining Hermione had been having trouble with some prejudiced roommates at her boarding school. A line from her Aunt Beulah stood out:

_I've got no idea what people out in England say, but in America there is a saying among people like us: we must work ten times as hard to get half. _

While Hermione couldn't correct her aunt—people in the Wizarding World cared about blood, not color—she felt the statement could translate nonetheless. As Hermione ran her tongue over her newly shrunken teeth, she resolved succumbing to the handicap of her blood status would simply not do. She would not be caught unaware ever again. She would not be called "Mudblood" without retaliating ever again. Not a single person would be able to doubt her magical prowess ever again.

Hermione Granger would make herself beyond reproach.

* * *

This is something new. What do you think?

Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

"You've tried extending the phonetic 'aa' sound?"

"Yes."

"You've tried every separate combination of emphasis on the syllables?"

"Yes."

"And gone through all the logical wand movements?"

"The illogical ones as well, ma'am."

Hermione watched as Professor Hilbert, a tall, German woman with a blonde buzz cut, grumbled to herself in her native tongue. With no explanation, she turned to the stack of tomes on the desk behind her and riffled through them. Hermione winced as she watched the older woman manhandle her books; the days of shredded books was far behind her, but Hermione still had a nervous tic. Professor Hilbert was the worst—even from Hermione's position feet away from her, she could see her mentor's scrawl slanting in the margins of her book in bright red ink. In some of the books Hilbert picked up, Hermione could see whole paragraphs she'd blacked out with a wide quib.

After a few minutes of no word from the German, Hermione ventured, "Perhaps I must rethink the incantation—"

"No," interrupted Hilbert, not sparing Hermione a glance, "you spent weeks trying to decode the most efficient number of syllables needed for the spell."

This was true; the professor had even sent Hermione's work to Hilbert's colleagues in France for second opinions, and then to Spain, Greece, and Carthage to be sure. All had agreed the incantation was correct.

"Perhaps I'm not equipped—"

At this, Hilbert's head shot up and she fixed Hermione a steely stare. Hermione snapped her mouth shut and fought to stop the mulish expression from crossing her face.

"You are no more less equipped than any else in your generation, miss Granger," the professor replied. "Most every spell to counter every problem has already been invented; there was a Golden Age of spell-creation, when there very little spells to combat a vast array of problems. Problem solving was easy. So spell creation was easy. That time has past."

"Yes," Hermione said after a beat, "I suppose what I am attempting is not as easy as inventing new householding charms."

Hilbert resumed her flipping before she said, "Yes, householding charms are indefinitely easier to cast and invent, especially after the invention of the first."

That was the crux of the matter; there was no precedent for spells restructuring the minds of those driven insane by somatic spells.

The idea had come to Hermione after a lesson on the Unforgivables during her fourth year. The professor had shown them moving pictures of a muggleborn witch who had been tortured with the Cruciatus for hours. The victim had been the unlucky target of an early Grindelwald loot in central Europe. The residual effects of the curse had left her with agoraphobia, a set of involuntary, full-body twitches, and a tendency to hallucinate near the anniversary of her torture date. Hermione's fourth-year professor had shown them the footage to drive home the horror of the use of the curse. His monotone narration had done nothing to soften some of the Hufflepuff's visceral reactions. During the lecture she had caught two male Slytherin classmates trading incredulous looks. Another Slytherin girl had murmured audibly, "Well, the women of that ilk _do _tend to be expire quicker," behind a gloved hand. Hermione had restrained herself. She had kept mum the entirety of the class. When everyone had left, Hermione had asked the professor for the name of the woman, and, if he would be so kind, to divulge where the lady lived now.

From there Hermione had started a regular correspondence with Paulina Abramovich, who coincidentally had been a researcher prior to her attack. After developing a strong trust in the other, Hermione had explained she had been interested in mind magic since she discovered her handiness with the Memory Charm, and she had dedicated herself to creating a spell meant to counter the harmful mental effects of curses which affect the body such as the Cruciatus. Would Paulina, as a muggleborn woman also interested in research, aid a fellow researcher?

_Well, _thought Hermione, _it appears I may not have an update for Pauly this month. _She was due to send Paulina news of her progress by the end of this week. _Though, _she amended, _it may not surprise her. _Progress on this project had been slow.

"Here are some texts a connect of mine sent for you," said Professor Hilbert, drawing Hermione's eyes away from her shoes.

Obediently, Hermione reached out to take them.

"You've also cross-referenced muggle texts on memory with their magic counterparts?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. The muggle texts had been easy enough to digest; the control, the independent variable, and the results were formatted in a convenient way. Commentaries and critiques were easy enough to find as well. Hermione thanked the high heavens for whoever had invented the scientific method. The wizarding equivalents were rarely so organized. One text she had read had been a terrible mix of early Middle English, the runic alphabet, Greek, and English. With little punctuation. Every other sentence made little grammatical sense. It had taken Hermione weeks to translate the book into runes, after which, she learned little from the text could be applied to her endeavor.

Nonetheless, Hermione refused to capitulate.

"You've hit a wall," observed Hilbert. "It may be time to revisit the premise."

"It may just be a problem which has no solu—"

"Incorrect," interjected Hilbert smoothly. "Revisit your premise. See me in two weeks."

Hermione nodded and stepped out of Hilbert's office. Anika Hilbert was, by job description, an Arithmancer and, by Hermione's estimation, a formidable instructor. The woman had a tendency of interrupting Hermione, but she supposed every student needed to be humbled during their formative years.

A couple of quick steps, a short journey through a hallway concealed by a tapestry, a flight down a staircase, through a door and Hermione was in an abandoned classroom near the Syltherin common room.

Hogwarts had an excess of classrooms, and it was common practice for students to claim some of them for private academic ventures. The best real estate on the upper floors had been claimed by Ravenclaws during her second year. During an early morning exploration of the dungeons, she had stumbled across a dusty classroom. The single window took up the entirety of one wall. If the Slytherin dormitories were completely under the Black Lake (thus, the greenish light and Grindylow window visits), then her classroom had been half-submerged. The bottom half of the classroom's wide window was dominated by the lake water. Hermione did not mind; it reminded her of an exhibit in an aquarium, where some seals swam below but one could still see some beached above.

With a wave of her wand, Hermione waved away layers of her wards. The air shimmered before revealing a handsome, carved wooden desk and a long table set along the sole, north-facing window. It was littered with papers, flasks, a couple cauldrons, and a bunsen burner. On the opposite side of the window, there was a row of bookcases filled to the brim. She had left the floor of the classroom bare, for times when she needed space to practice spell work. A while ago, Hermione had Transfigured a chair into a plush, olive loveseat, which she tucked into a cozy corner. Another chair had become an end table with a lamp. The piece de resistance of her set up was a cabinet fully stocked with international teas, spelled to set in the wall next to her loveseat.

After depositing her new books on the end table, Hermione spent a few minutes brewing tea, humming a little as she watched her teapot do a little jig with her mug, waving her hands to encourage two sugar cubes to join the dance. They seemed quite hesitant.

"There you are," Hermione said as the sugar cubes dropped into the mug full of steeping tea. The young woman sighed as she alighted on her loveseat, taking a sip and looking around her workspace.

There were only a couple minutes until dinner in the Great Hall, Hermione realized absently. She could take an early dinner and spend the rest of her night in here. The best thing about her space was how close it was to the entrance of Slytherin's dorm; even if she stayed out past curfew, she was usually able to return to her room without consequence. It was a much less nerve-wracking process than traveling from the library after curfew—she didn't even need to charm herself invisible, so rare was the chance of her being discovered.

"Meeowrrr." Crookshanks decided it was time to make himself known. He presented his squashed face to Hermione, who stretched out a hand to scritch at his nose. Crookshanks released a soft sound.

"Hello, cat," greeted Hermione. "Looking quite handsome on this eve, aren't you?"

Crookshanks gave a self-satisfied purr, luminous eyes narrowing in pleasure. He really was a gorgeous creature—half-Kneazle and half-Persian, with an immaculate fluffy orange and white coat. Hermione suspected her familiar was vain; the amount of times Crookshanks cleaned himself bordered was unnecessary. It was also in the way he interacted with other cats. If they weren't clean enough for him, Crookshanks would put his nose in the air, whip his bottlebrush tail, and refuse to entertain another feline presence.

Hermione rose and vanished her mug. "I'll bring you back something tasty," she said to Crookshanks's indignant look.

With a wave of her hand, she re-set her wards and stepped out of the classroom. The adjoining hallway was empty. Her steps echoed in the hallway, and she relished the sound.

The truth was, Hermione mused, she was unbelievably lucky to lead the life she was living, despite all odds. There was little she would change. Well, save for the issue of the stumbling block in her latest attempt at spell creation. But she had no doubt, once this project was completed, there would be new spells to create, new potions to brew, and new magical things to discover. She could easily spend the rest of her life in a perpetual state of discovery.

In fact, she was preparing to do so.

With a growing sense of satisfaction, Hermione entered the Great Hall and took a seat at Slytherin's table. As she was helping herself to a generous plate of chicken and dumplings, she noticed a large group of fellow Slytherin seventh years, led by Abraxas Malfoy. Her eyes flitted between him and his companions before she dismissed them in favor of taking a sip of water.

She had a couple of peaceful minutes before she heard a snide, feminine voice say, "My, she even eats like someone of her station."

The taunt was baseless; Hermione's mother was a stickler for dining ettitique—her extended family even more so. She had too many memories of disapproving stares and corrections said in that particular, Southern, American dulcet tone. The Browns were a coven of women who breathed china, sterling silver utensils, silk pantsuits, and sweet, iced tea. The three women who had situated themselves a few meters down from her had nothing on her aunts. Hermione openly watched them trade a few whispered words before one threw her head back and laughed.

"What are you staring at?" sneered one of them.

Hermione furrowed her brow, not liking the girl's tone. "I'm sorry?"

The black-haired girl curled her lip as her friend whispered something in her ear. Her eyes never left Hermione's, who met her stare impassively before returning to her food. _This really does taste like Mum's cooking, _she thought to herself. _The house-elves have outdone themselves this year, replicating an American dish—_

"_Hem hem, _no, Sinny, I much prefer to watch _my _figure," said the black-haired girl in response to whatever her friend had whispered. Her voice was slightly raised just to make sure it reached Hermione. The trio had recaptured her attention.

"Yes," added another, "not _all _of us eat as if it is their last meal."

Hermione only raised a brow as she finished her plate and reached for cornbread. She was happy to find it tasted just as sweet and buttery as cornbread should be. _Delicious, _she thought in wonder. It was a brilliant move to write down her mother's recipe and hand it off to the house elves. She'd have to write her mum with the news.

"Look at her, munching like a fat co—"

"Are you speaking to me?" Hermione said, turning an eye to the trio. She squinted at them.

"Have we met before?" she furthered. Hermione didn't remember having classes with any one of them; her memory was nearly eidetic—surely she would have recognized one of them. Perhaps they were in a lower year. "I don't think we've met, could you remind me of your names?"

Unaffected by the mixed looks of disgust and hesitation, Hermione waited for a couple of beats before she offered,

"I'm Hermione."

She chewed her cornbread, waiting for a response. The women muttered a bit before chittering among themselves.

Unbeknowsnt to the four women, the exchange had garnered some male attention. It had started with Antonin Dolohov being less than attentive to the present conversation, instead choosing to look down the table. At first, Abraxas had been mildly put out—what, honestly, was so interesting about Dolores Umbridge, Alecto Carrow, and Sinistra Lowe?—until he looked closer. The girls had decided to pick at the mudblooded girl. Admittedly, Granger didn't look too flustered. There was something in the dumb tilt of her head, the foolish way she continued to chew even as the other women threw out their taunts. The genuine, doltish look she give the younger girls convinced Tom Granger had no self-awareness about her at all—the handful of times she'd been called a number of slurs, the brown-skinned girl had never reacted. Tom would bet good money she had little idea what the word "mudblood" even meant. She might consistently tie with him in exams and grades, but it was clear the bookworm had no street sense. She'd probably be devastated when she learned exemplar grades meant nothing in the face of her birth status.

If he was a character in a novel, he supposed the author might juxtapose the two of them; both undesirables whose excellence afforded them a certain amount of privilege. He had been named Head Boy with a fast track to a Ministry job, and Granger had remained a Slytherin despite her parentage.

"Would you look at that," murmured Antonin, "courtesy silences vitriol."

Abraxas leaned a cheek on his hand, before he said, "More like appropriate deference. The ladies are easily placated when treated properly."

Tom bit back a sigh and met Antonin's eyes. Malfoy's prejudice was precisely why he was not a member of Tom's inner circle. Pureblood supremacy, though a helpful mechanism, had been disproven the minute he had been conceived by his cunt of a mother.

He took a savage sort of pleasure knowing Wizarding Britain's youngest and brightest fell over themselves to please him. Now the panting masses of purebloods, all scions of their house, orbited around him. Each one of their sycophantic remarks, sidelong glances, and holiday invitations extended to him was testament to his superiority. Often Tom felt as though he was alone walking through a garden during the height of spring. All was his to enjoy.

Misinterpreting Tom's absent-minded stare in Granger's direction, Antonin raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips in askance. Tom shook his head in response as he resumed his meal.

"Too plain?" the Russian teased. Hermione Granger was not ugly in the least—any wizard could admit that.

"As exotic as she looks, her most exciting hobby is probably knitting," remarked Abraxas with a wave of his hand. "Not a witch worth doing."

Tom hummed in amusement, watching Dolohov's eyes run over Hermione's robed figure making her way out of the door.

Antonin, besides being a quick study and a loyal follower, had tendencies which might have disturbed Tom if not for his own predilections. He was not surprised to witness the dark-haired boy rise and follow the girl out of the Great Hall, hands in his pockets.

"Tom, have you read the _Prophet_ today?" asked Rodolphus Lestrange.

"A tragedy," sniffed Abraxas. "The Ministry made a grave mistake."

"No doubt this will anger the older houses. If the current administration means to implement change, they are doing a poor job of it."

Abraxas tilted his head, cheek still in hand as he agreed, "This oversight has no precedent." Glancing at Tom through a fringe of thick, blond eyelashes, "One might even lose faith in the system."

This morning, the _Daily Prophet _had relayed news concerning housing for the burgeoning, young Wizarding class. A newly passed bill granted Ministry funds to an architectural firm to conjure "innovative designs which marry structure with magical efficiency." Brunelleschi & Vaughn was the experimental brainchild of a half-blood man and a muggleborn man who had studied as a muggle architect prior to living in the Wizarding world. Their work was well-respected; they specialized in Undetectable Extension charms and, according to the _Prophet, _"sentient home-making." It was assumed Brunelleschi & Vaughn would be developing Ministry-owned land. Just like that, an amount in excess of three million Galleons was allocated to the small firm. In their excitement to fund B&V, the Wizengamot had been unaware the sum of land the firm had secured for the project was located in privately owned parts of Diagon Alley.

The Ministry bill had only served to grant money—not outline restrictions. There was a quiet, unidentified wizarding conglomerate which had been buying the deeds of condemned buildings around the Knockturn area. Whomever had negotiated the property contracts had wrangled ownership of the buildings and the physical land on which they stood. A source had informed the _Daily Prophet _Brunelleschi & Vaughn would be developing a new housing district in Knockturn.

_"__No need to fear," _the _Prophet _had consoled, _"Diagon Alley will not be unrecognizable. Richard Vaughn says, 'We respect the history and beauty of the older Edwardian style of the buildings in Knockturn. We are most interested in the interiors of those buildings.'" _

The project was set to be done by the time they graduated.

"It's ludicrous the Ministry and the Wizengamot would allow such expensive foolery," said Tom finally.

"It certainly is a loss in the court of public opinion," Abraxas said. "How does one allow such a giant loophole? That money was mostly contributed by purebloods."

_"__B&V have made clear their stance on wizarding heritage," _informed _the Prophet. "Phil Brunelleschi shared, 'My father tells me stories of when he first moved to Wizarding London. For many in his generation, it was impossible to find a decent place to live in because of their [blood] status. The landlords who did rent to him didn't allow him to use magic to improve the property. Many older muggleborns were stuck in flats with asbestos. Or living in complexes with Doxie infestations. The property owners we are working with are sympathetic to that and wish to treat all of their future tenants equally, regardless of who their parents are." _

"Essentially, the old coots have been had," said Rodolphus Lestrange, who had tuned into the conversation.

"Perhaps the Ministry needs an influx of young eyes," said Tom, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, looking through his lashes at the young Malfoy heir.

Abraxas gave a small, secret smile. A sharp light entered his downturned eyes before he looked off into space. There was no doubt he was thinking of his own future. The sole heir to the Malfoy fortune had settled a year-long apprenticeship to a law firm to start the week after their Hogwarts graduation. Tom thought it would be helpful to have a friend on track to a Wizengamot seat.

Tom watched as Antonin returned the same way he left. The Russian said nothing as he retook his seat.

"Well?" prompted Rodolphus with expectant eyes.

"What?" asked Dolohov.

"No stories of the muddy bird you followed, Antya? Twenty minutes is a record," Tom contributed.

The young man furrowed his brow before smoothing his face out. "I went to the restroom."

"Yes, and what of Granger?"

Antonin shrugged as Tom's eyes narrowed.

Odd.

Nonetheless, there would be no time to pursue it—it was time to oversee patrols. As if on cue, Minerva McGonagall had stood from her place at Gryffndor, looking across the room to nod at Tom. Minerva resembled a tall rectangle wearing a gold-and-red tie. The Head Girl had tragically been deprived of all common gifts to the female persuasion; McGonagall had no hips, a flat chest, boxy shoulders, thin lips, and short lashes. Her fine, light brown hair was cut to her chin. Her brows were arched and sparse. A set of wire-rimmed glasses framed a pair of gray, hooded eyes. In Tom's opinion, Minerva's two redeeming qualities were her legs—they were quite shapely, and he found himself admiring her calves, in a mannish matter.

By the way McGonagall's eyes swept him over, it was clear she was not attracted to him either.

"All right, Riddle?" she greeted as he approached.

"Minerva!" he smiled. "How are you?"

"Quite well. Thank you for asking. I shall take the first shift. That leaves you with the last." With this and a short nod, McGonagall turned on her heel and walked away. Tom just barely stopped his face from twisting in annoyance. Haughty bint.

So Tom Riddle found himself strolling along, completing the graveyard shift. It was fortunate Tom rarely slept; otherwise he might have been more annoyed Minerva had foisted the night shift on him. Nothing of note ever happened during the night shifts; after twelve it was rare for him to catch a student out of bed, especially this early into the school year. He was quite at home, however, among the dark hallways lit by fire light. Electricity did not work in Hogwarts, and Tom had once asked a ghost who was responsible for lighting the torches at night, to which the ghost had given a blank look before saying something to the effect of "the castle knows."

Sentience. An aware building. Tom toyed with the B&V dilemma again. All governments made mistakes—the true issue was the identity of the wizarding conglomerate who had bought out Knockturn. Lestrange and Black had offered to make some discreet inquiries to determine who the group was. He was expecting an update in a couple of weeks. Tom needed to know what the motive of the group was—why Knockturn? Why be anonymous? Obviously, the group had some monetary pull. Were they foreign? How did Brunelleschi and Vaughn get in contact with them?

If the group was pureblooded, Tom surely would have heard of it before _the Prophet _article. There was a possibility it was a mixed group of blood sympathesizing purebloods, half bloods, and a few muggleborn wizards. More concerning would be a group of mudbloods who now owned part of Wizarding Britain's downtown. It would mean they had both quietly made a large purchase and amassed the funds to do so. In either case, the move represented a shift in status quo, especially in the wake of Grindelwald's defeat earlier in the summer. Tom scowled in thought. Of course, the focus of the whole of Europe was its recovery from that particular Dark Lord, but nonetheless, someone should have noticed deeds changing hands. How had all of this happened without anyone knowing?

The sound of a door closing drew Tom's attention.

Hermione Granger was standing a scant few meters down the corridor Tom had just turned into. Her robe was missing, and Tom could see a gleam shimmering under the dark green material of her tights. Tom guessed someone had thought to weave silver thread them, and they caught the light of the lit torches in the hallway.

"You're past curfew," Tom said as he neared.

To her credit, Hermione did not show any sign of surprise as she turned to him. "Head Boy," she greeted.

"Do you have an explanation?" Tom had found it was best to ask transgressing students this question before doling out punishments—it made him seem more relatable.

"I was looking for my cat," she replied, eyes shifting to him before she looked at a point over his shoulder.

"Your cat," Tom repeated.

The girl bobbed a nod, shifting from one foot to the other.

"At twelve in the morning."

"Crookshanks is a nocturnal animal, but he's got a terrible sense of direction. I'm afraid he had gotten lost on the way back to the dungeon," she said, hand in her hair as she scanned the area. "I don't suppose I'll find him tonight. I don't fancy you'd be willing to help me find my familiar."

Tom gave a near-silent nasal sigh. The mudblooded girl really had no sense of self. He'd not be caught dead helping some chit search for a cat in the wee hours of the morning. Dumb as rocks, she was.

Tom was opening his mouth to respond when Hermione turned expectant eyes on him.

"Well, what's my punishment?" she asked as she moved farther away from the door she was near. Tom noted this.

"I think you can be let off with a warning. Try not to be out late again, hmm? I hate to take points from one of our own." As the words left his lips, Tom scanned Granger's profile. Antonin had followed the girl out during dinner, hadn't he? She was acting awfully regular.

"I'll escort you back to the dormitory."

At this Hermione shrugged and followed his stride, apparently comfortable in the dark and in the silence between them.

Curiosity struck. "Did you talk to Antya after dinner? I saw him follow you out."

"Who is Antya?" the girl asked.

"Antonin."

"Who?"

"Dolohov."

"Antonin Dolohov," Granger replied. She had a quiet voice, and there was something in her accent which seemed off—the _r'_s of her words were a hair too sharp to be properly English. "Is he one of your friends?"

"Yes." Antonin and Rodolphus were the closest things to friends Tom could foresee himself having.

"No," she said with a certain sort of finality, "why would he?"

Here she turned an eye on him. The timing was perfect; the light of a nearby torch caught her irises, and Tom could distinguish her pupil from her dark iris. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and something in her expression made him choose his words carefully.

"No reason," he said, gaze measuring her response, "maybe he thought you were upset. You know, after the thing with Dolores and the rest."

Granger blinked and said, "What?"

"The remarks they made about you," he clarified.

"Who is 'they?'"

Tom grit his molars. "You know. Dolores Umbridge. Sinistra. Alecto. The three girls at dinner."

"Oh," she said. Then Granger gave him an odd look as she stated, "I don't know any of them. You called one of them Dolores. Is she one of your friends, as well?"

What were they even talking about?

"—know much about other classmates. I've been so focused on my studies; it takes a bit of effort on my part to make excellent grades."

"So Antya didn't talk to you? He seemed concerned," Tom said.

Granger didn't appear to hear him as she said the password to a bare stretch of wall:

"Discriminating truth."

Intuition tingled at him as the brown girl stepped through into the common room. Something here was not adding up. As Granger turned to thank him, Tom let a mental tendril extend to probe at the girl's mind.

What he found was both open and closed. There was a feeling of entering a large, rotund room with colorless walls and no doors before Tom withdrew.

Hermione was now giving him a polite, unassuming smile.

"Good night," he found himself saying.

She nodded and disappeared into her room. Tom watched her close her door.

Something was not adding up at all.

* * *

What do you think is not adding up? Tell me your predictions.

Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione ran a tongue over her teeth and stared in the mirror before cupping her hands under the running faucet. She raised her hands to her mouth, gulped the water and started to gargle. Then she spit it out, watching the clear liquid swirl into the drain.

Her roommates were not early risers, so the suite bathroom the four of them shared was all hers. Hermione turned her head, surveying the skin of her cheek. Her mother's family had moles, and her father's family had freckles. She had been thankful not to inherit either trait, but there were three new developments resting on her cheekbone. It was too early to determine if they were moles or blackheads. They certainly were not beauty marks—she had an excess of those.

Had she been wrong?

The thought had lanced across her mind all of a sudden, and Hermione frowned at her reflection.

Two weeks ago, after dinner last night, Hermione had been walking toward her classroom when she felt a presence behind her. The first time she had turned around. There had been nothing in the corridor. The second time she swore she had felt a finger brushing across her neck and had given the hallway a hard stare. The third time she had waved her hand and saw who had been following her.

Did he expect to scare her? That had been the first question out of her mouth when she saw the dark, curly haired boy. He looked vaguely familiar—at any rate, she could tell he was a Slytherin by the tie color.

No, he had replied. Just curious.

Curious. She had repeated the phrase out loud, noting the distinct differences in their accents. The boy must have been from the continent—perhaps the eastern part. There was something to the way the boy had been considering her. Hermione had wanted to see his hands; they were stuffed in his pockets, and it made her nervous.

What's your name? The urge to know his name had come upon her all of a sudden.

Antonin. An Eastern name, just like she suspected. Czech. Estonian. The Bulgarian seeker she met her fourth year had been a wonderful gateway to a group of pureblooded Durmstrang students who didn't care about blood purity, so long as Viktor Krum endorsed her. Ekaterina. Ruslan. Ilona. Misha. She was well-versed in names from that part of the world.

The boy had not left, and Hermione wondered why the sound of the Great Hall seemed muffled in the quiet. She had felt another, cold sensation sliding over her skin before she had reacted with a wave of her hand.

Even now, two weeks later, she could never explain what had possessed her to cast what she did.

The hex had been her own—a fusion of the Notice-Me-Not, the Confundus, and a dose of forgetfulness to be thorough. The boy clearly had not been expecting her to cast at him, so focused he was on whatever he had been trying to cast at her. Even though she knew her spell had connected, there had been a moment where the boy had not reacted. Hermione had reserved her sigh of relief until the boy turned around and left.

Was she wrong?

In all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never hexed anyone. Students got in trouble for casting at others all the time. Was it wrong for her to hex that boy? Who was he, again? Tom Riddle had called him Dolohov.

He was about to hex her, wasn't he?

She would only cast in self-defense. It was self-defense. It had to be. Hermione was not in the habit of hexing people. She had only shot that spell at him to save herself from being hit with something. Besides, he wouldn't remember anything, anyway.

Right?

The spell was newly developed; Hermione had not tested it on anyone. Mind magic was hard to test on nonhumans. The reactions to stimuli were too difficult to catalogue and, besides, Hermione felt uneasy subjecting small rodents to experiments. Principally, it seemed ill-advised to test mind magic on herself. That had been the first time she had used that curse on someone. It hadn't even been a curse. It was a hex. A jinx, really. Nothing serious.

He wouldn't even remember it.

Harmless.

Curious.

Had the spell worked? At this Hermione frowned at the mirror and fingered a tendril of hair. The tresses had grown long again after a stunt a classmate had pulled during sixth year. The sheer weight of her hair elongated her curls and gave them some sense of order, though the shorter pieces along the perimeter of her hairline permanently grew at a slower rate than the rest. Her face was framed with wispy, frizzy curls. Hermione didn't mind; she quite liked it.

Was it bad for her to still be curious?

She didn't have his consent to hex him; she shouldn't have casted something so experimental.

What if she got in trouble?

"Good morning," said a cool voice. Hermione looked up to find one of her suitemates approaching the mirror. The young woman studied the image of the two of them before she observed,

"How peculiar. You look flushed."

Hermione blinked and backed away from the sink, pressing a hand to her cheek. The other girl shot her a slight look of confusion before she picked up her hairbrush.

"Yes," she heard herself say, "I suppose I am."

_Impossible, _she thought to herself as she put on her clothes. _Genetically it is highly unlikely any blush of mine would be detectable. _But her head did feel hot. She put two hands over her cheeks, feeling Thinking of summer tans and melanin, Hermione picked up a small bag on her way out of her dorm, not bothering to stop in the common room.

What if he told?

He wouldn't, Hermione reminded herself for the _n_-th time. He had been about to curse her. He wouldn't tell anyone anything, even if his friend was the Head Boy.

Antonin Dolohov was friends with Tom Riddle. Head Boy.

What if the spell hadn't worked? What if he was hurt?

What if she had hurt him?

What if—

The sounds of forks scraping plates roused her. There was a group of Gryffndors roaring with laughter, far too early in the morning. Ravenclaws bent over books and quills. The Hufflepuff table was scarcely populated; the black-and-gold ties were spread out among the blues and reds. Toward the back was the Slytherin table, and Hermione could see the back of a curly head of hair. Hermione took a deep breath and marched to the table, stomach churning.

She took a seat farther down, eyes fastened on him as they had been for the past two weeks, even as she started to fix breakfast.

He didn't look like he remembered. Did he? She didn't know him well enough to tell, but he was interacting with Riddle and a blond. His reaction time seemed fine; his friends didn't look concerned. She was too far away to determine if his pupils were dilated. Could he follow moving objects with his eyes alone? Did he register sensation the same way?

She shared many classes with him—but he was just as quiet as he had been since the beginning of the year, so it was difficult to determine if he knew. It was a miracle she hadn't been caught staring at him—she'd changed seats so as to keep him in her line of sight—all the better to observe—

Would he tell?

As if Dolohov could feel her eyes, he paused in conversation to regard her.

Hermione looked down at the hands holding her teacup. They were shaking.

She set her cup in its saucer and reached for a napkin. There was warm liquid all over the table. Some had even gotten into her bowl of porridge. Instead of throwing it away, Hermione spent a few minutes stirring the tea into her morning meal.

He knew. She was sure of it. He knew she had cursed him—really, it was more of a jinx—and he was friends with the Head Boy, and he was going to report her. Dolohov's parents would undoubtedly get involved, and if they had any pull as purebloods at all she'd be toast, even if he had been preparing to curse her. She'd be kicked out. It was a miracle she had made it this far at Hogwarts. She should have been more careful. She should have waited until he had finished his curse. She should have casted something more reliable.

What if he was hurt?

"Hello, Miss Granger," said a familiar voice. Hermione forcibly had to stop her shoulders from hiking up in surprise.

Hermione tried to smooth out her expression and gave a weak smile.

"Mister Dolohov," she returned. "How are you?"

His pupils looked fine.

"I am well."

Maybe he didn't remember.

"And you?"

"I am well, as well."

"As well? That is good."

Hermione took a moment to sip her tea, hoping all the while her hands wouldn't betray her. Why was he here? Did he remember? He didn't seem at all affected from last night.

"You may be wondering why I am seeking your company," Dolohov started. Hermione paused to breathe before she took another gulp of tea.

"I didn't peg you as the social sort," Hermione said. "May I help you, Mister Dolohov?"

So focused on her tea was she Hermione did not look at the Russian young man as he leaned forward and said, "If you are suffering from guilt over our interaction a fortnight ago, please cease immediately. I attempted to hex you first."

Hermione's throat felt dry, and she reached for a cup of water. Dolohov watched her.

"It was a reflex," she offered hoarsely.

"A wonderful reflex to have," he stated. There was a marveling quality to his voice. Hermione set her water down after a couple long pulls.

"With what did you hit me? I have never seen such a curse. No light. No incantation."

"Yours was similiar."

"You also discovered me. You cancelled my cloak nonverbally." Dolohov was a quiet speaker, barely audible over the sound of early chatter and clinking porcelain.

"It was simple revealing spell."

"That one was an original. What spell did you use?"

_It's an original. _It had been on the tip of her tongue. Hermione opened her mouth, thought twice, and tilted her head instead. Dolohov took a sip out of a tall glass filled with strawberry kefir and bit into an appetizing dumpling. He caught her gaze and offered her one silently. Hermione shook her head.

"You are missing out," he shrugged.

"You don't plan on reporting me," Hermione said out loud, trying to keep her voice quiet.

Antonin gave her a plain look.

"Truthfully?"

"On my honor," he said lightly, around a mouthful of dumpling. He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a clean napkin.

"Dolohov—"

"Pardon my interruption; I should have been straightforward from the start. Where I am from there are more who are interested in spelling and its creation. Here, it is more difficult to find. Britain makes wonderful wands. It is a shame there are few discovering new ways of casting do them justice. I, ah," Dolohov searched for the proper words. "I think I have…" he frowned, "I believe I have found a…"

"Someone like-minded?"

"Yes."

Hermione did not know what to say to this, and so took to her porridge again. The tea (a camomile) was not an unwelcome flavoring agent and did a bit to thin out the thick cereal. Porridge was warm and nourishing; a modest bowl would fill her until lunch. Simple. A direct opposition to the way her hands had gone clammy, and to the heat which was creeping along her neck. It wasn't until the bowl was half-empty that she spoke again.

"You're seeking someone like-minded?" she asked.

"Yes," said Dolohov, who had finished his glass of kefir and his plate of dumplings and moved on to a pair of runny eggs. He was chasing the yolk around with a bit of toast. "That is what I offered."

"What you offered."

"Yes, Miss Granger. Along with the _syrniki, _though you declined." A little disappointed frown here, as though he could not fathom the reason Hermione would not eat something he'd offered.

"Why were you following me?"

Dolohov's brows shot up his forehead, and his grey eyes seemed to be distantly surprised, but Hermione continued, stirring her porridge.

"And why would you curse me?"

"Would you like to know what I was cursing you with?" _Yes. _

"That's not important." It wasn't. Not when there were more pressing questions which needed answers.

"I told you. I was curious."

"Do you often attempt to curse what piques your interest?"

"Often enough to call it habit," he said. But there was something in his eye which made Hermione doubt him.

She told him so.

"I doubt that's true."

"Perhaps," was his ready reply. "Though you hardly know enough of my character to make an assessment."

"Correct."

Hermione returned to her porridge.

"Intellectual companionship," she said, testing out the idea in her mind.

"And syrniki."

"What else are you offering, Mister Dolohov?"

"My company is not enough?"

It wasn't—Paulina was formidable enough on her own, and she had met plenty of associates in Bulgaria (thank you, Viktor) and access to many more through Professor Hilbert. She even knew a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The addition of Dolohov to her mix would do little. Hermione had to believe the young man thought he would benefit from her—he had been peppering her with questions earlier, about her spells. He wished for someone to talk shop with.

"There are many abroad who would satisfy your desire for a collaborator," she hedged.

"I wish to know someone who is my age. Most are older."

Fair enough. Hermione poured herself a glass of orange juice and sipped from it as she composed herself, shifting in her seat.

Dolohov, thinking she might be leaving soon, leaned forward and said more quietly, "It may do well to associate more closely with those of a more established background. Especially in Slytherin House."

Hermione felt a stiffening in her spine, and there was something bitter which threatened to bubble over her lips from her throat. She felt warm all over; there had been a quick rush of blood to her face.

"Oh?" she said, and she was amazed her tone was so even. "Is there something exceptional about those men and women of this House?"

Dolohov rubbed his chin. "No," he said after a time. "No, I do not believe there is. But it is not unwise to be affiliated with some of us."

_Us. _Just as quickly as the rage came, it left, leaving Hermione with her normal temperature and a metallic, hollow feeling in her chest. _Us _was a sphere she would not be a part of. There was no use for anger.

"It would be unwise to entertain an asset-less pureblood," she said, nearly mouthing the words. The Great Hall was nearing capacity now.

"You desire me to list my assets?"

Hermione dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "It's only right."

"It is gauche."

"For some."

"For me."

"Some believe it is gauche to interrupt a woman during a meal. Or to curse her."

"It was unable to land."

"By the grace of my wand. A list—"

"Miss Granger—pardon my interruption again, I assure you—it is not my habit. My family care little for mansions or estate. Pristine reputation is far more difficult to maintain, but we are attentive enough. The Dolohov are well-respected internationally. I imagine an endorsement from one of my name would open doors otherwise closed to you."

"Perhaps—"

The Russian steam-rolled over her. "And though you may accomplish much on merit alone, there are many who overlook magical merit in favor of purity. I wish to spare you disappointment."

The heat was back, and Hermione gripped her napkin hard, took two deep breaths, and relaxed her shoulders.

"I'm delighted." It truly was a miracle her voice revealed nothing, and she thanked the heavens for her upbringing.

Hermione had her limits. She knew that. So she stood up and got her bag. Dolohov gave her a short glance, but continued with his breakfast. He had moved on to a tasty looking cinnamon scone.

"You accept?"

"What you offer—do you offer it on your magic?"

Dolohov nodded, and began to open his mouth.

"Then I think it would be unwise to refuse. Pleasure to meet you, Mister Dolohov." Hermione turned on her heel and walked out the Great Hall.

Somewhat amused, Antonin met the eyes of Tom Riddle, who had, sometime during the course of the morning meal, entirely ceased pretending to pay attention to whatever Abraxas was sharing to focus further along the table. Antonin gave him a small wave. Tom inclined his head and tuned back in.

He caught up with Antonin later on in the day. They were on their way to Herbology when Tom fell in step with the Russian student. The Slytherins were moving in a large group toward the greenhouses, and the two of them had a clear vision of who was leading the pack.

"Well?" Tom murmured, stare fixed on bushy curls. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail sometime during the day; it hadn't been up during breakfast.

"She is amenable," said Dolohov, lips barely moving.

"Amenable."

"Amenable. And suspicious—but who would not be?"

"Good."

Tom had not bought Hermione's claim of looking for her familiar after hours, and, after seeing her back to the Slytherin common room, had retraced their steps. He had tried all the doors in the corridor—some had opened and some had stuck locks he'd forced open. He had not been rewarded; all of the classrooms were just classrooms, with no interesting bits. There were no signs of magic at all, but something still itched at Tom. His intuition was tingling at him.

On a hunch, he had asked Antonin if he could step into his mind.

Antya's psyche was like a large grassland made of impressions and memories. Nothing had been unusual, though, until Tom came across what best resembled an emptied lake. There was a large depression in the landscape of his mind, not unnatural looking, but new to Tom. It was wet with vestiges of a recent event, but incomprehensibly empty. Someone had tampered with Dolohov's memories—all Tom could pick out was Antonin had attempted to curse someone.

Together, he and Antonin had pieced together a reasonable series of events. Antonin had followed Granger out of the Great Hall. They guessed she had discovered Dolohov. Antonin had tried to curse her. It was unclear whether the cast connected before Granger cursed him in self-defense. But. Tom had asked Antonin _why _he had attempted to curse Hermione, expecting a candid response. Antonin couldn't remember his motive. Not only did he not remember the specifics of his encounter with Hermione, but he couldn't remember what his intent had been. There was little doubt in their mind Granger had invented an entirely new spell.

A very useful spell. Oblivates had their place, but their effects were reversible. Had Tom not already been familiar with Antonin's psyche, he might not have detected Granger's tampering at all.

So, with Tom's direction, Antonin had bluffed his way through breakfast with the mudgirl.

"Did she curse you?"

"Yes."

"With what?"

"She did not say."

"And then?"

"I—ah—the Americans say—'sweeten the pot.'"

"What did you offer?"

"She was dismissive of another intellectual equal—she must have many of those already—"

Tom made a note. He had never seen Granger interact with a single person in their House, but that did not mean she did not have allies in others.

"—but she seemed interested in influence."

"You offered social lubrication."

"I swore it on my magic."

Tom blinked as Antonin shrugged.

"I have sworn worse."

Tom hummed in agreement. Up ahead, Granger was filing into the greenhouse. "I suppose you have."

Today was a solo working day, and Professor Sprout was not one to care for House relationships, which is how Hermione ended up next to a group of Gryffndors. The trio of young men were bickering good-naturedly.

"and then snot comes rushing out of Ginny's nose—Fred and George belly-out laughing, not even trying to hide they've done it, the gits—Percy's scrambling—snot's everywhere, and it was nearly making him seizure—"

"Where's Molly?"

"Outside drinking with my uncles," here the redheaded one did a horrible imitation of a female voice, all high and pitchy, "_Oh, _I'ven't seen them in ages! Billy, _darling, _won't you watch the rest? Catching up is so hard to do."

The one with an unfortunate case of bedhead pushed his glasses up his nose and joined in, in a similarly screechy tone, "_Billy _and _Ronnie_, you'll understand when you've families of your own—Charlie, _you've_ failed me, Merlin knows—"

In unison all three said, "I've given up on _Percival._"

The three of them snickered. One had his arms buried in a large pot of dirt, and he made sure to avoid agitating the Irritable Irises they were in the middle of transplanting. That took some skill.

"She's mastered the art of asking questions. Except they're not questions, are they? She's just… expectant."

"Mine, too," agreed the bed-headed one.

"My mother doesn't even have to ask me," sighed the third male, who had carefully extracted his hand from the potting soil and patted the surface, as if to make sure the plants were settled in. "She always looks so tired—I'm already spelling the dishes clean before she's opened her mouth."

Hermione snuck a glance. The boy's forearms were well-formed, and Hermione thought she could see a quiet sort of strength along the set of his square shoulders. His posture was superb. His profile had a fantastic nose.

A moment of silence stretched too long between the three of them. Hermione focused on the pot in front of her again as one of them scoffed disbelievingly.

"You're better than the both of us, Nev."

Hermione heard someone shifting some supplies along the table. "Honestly, I understand. Nev's mum is an angel. So's his dad—better than mine, anyway—flashy git. When he gets together with the rest of them it's havoc at my place—"

"Sirius is fun, though."

"Yes, when he's not tipsy off rum and butterbeer. Muggle and Wizarding drinks shouldn't mix. The next time he passes out on _your—_"

_BANG. _

"Shi—"

Hermione turned around to see two of the boys scrambling to pick up shards of a broken pot. The last boy was sweeping up fallen dirt. The white roots of two iris plants were exposed. Before her eyes, the purple plants started wriggling. With amusement, Hermione watched them stand themselves up. Their stems were hunched over, as if they were little old men and women, looking for all the world desperate for walking canes. Their petals started flapping, and Hermione could hear a crochety sort of complaining from the pair.

The boys paid them no mind, so the plants' grumbling became louder. So focused were the three Gryffndors on cleaning up none of them were concerned with soothing the pair of irises. The loudness drew the attention of the class, and when Hermione witnessed a couple of glares being sent their way, Hermione took out her wand and conjured two tiny walkers, complete with tennis balls.

"There you are," said Hermione in a low voice. As her shadow fell over the plants, their blooms swiveled to face her. She slid the walkers to the couple, who accepted them gratefully. Immediately their complaints stopped.

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," she continued quietly, peering down at the pair as they leaned on the walkers. "You musn't be too cross with those three, hmm? They're boys. Young men make many mistakes, I am quite sure they didn't mean it. That sun up there must feel lovely. Are you two comfortable? They're preparing new beds for you right now. Would you like some more manure in the next pot? Oh, your blooms are _so _nice…"

Hermione knew how to smooth things over, and she got lost in her own reassurances until she felt someone standing near her side.

"Sorry," she said as she straightened up, hand dusting the front of her robes. "I was looking to help."

"Thank you," replied the Gryffndor boy, pushing up his glasses. The tape on them drew Hermione's attention. It took her a beat to reply it was no problem.

"I think you've managed to reverse any damage those two caused," said a wry voice. The taller boy with the fantastic nose was looking at her with a small smile. Hermione noted his cheeks were boyishly round and pink. The answering smile which rose to her face was natural.

He had a face she wanted to trust.

"Only time will tell," she responded. Irritable Irises were picky growers, but the pay off after their flowering period was well-worth it; after going to seed, well-cared-for irises deposited seven times their plant mass in pure mercury—but in volume. Mercury had many uses in potion-making, and the purity of iris-made mercury was supreme. If irritated at all, instead the iris would deposit the much less valuable graphite.

Thinking of her own plant waiting at her station, Hermione shuffled out the way, being sure not to bump the table where the irises were resting.

Hermione was on her way back when she heard the voice of the redheaded one ask, "What'd that one want?"

"She just took care of the irises while we were cleaning," replied one of them.

"Quite nice for a snake," he quipped. Hermione looked up briefly to see the redhead looking at her playfully. She turned her attention on her pot again.

"Careful, Neville, she'll bite you soon enough," he said.

There was a muffled sound, as if someone was talking into the collar of his shirt.

"Harry!" laughed the redheaded boy.

"Ten points to Slytherin for a wonderful transplants by both Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Riddle. The elderly irises deserve the best—they'll be gone soon, stupid things," Professor Sprout said, meeting the bloom of an indignant iris unapologetically. She made her way to Hermione's section of the room.

"Five points to Mr. Longbottom as well, for a timely transplant. Perhaps it is time to aid your housemates—the walkers are a very nice idea, Misters Potter and Weasley."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. Sprout knew what a muggle walker was. And she certainly didn't expect those three to be related to some of Britain's best Aurors. Frank and Alice Longbottom. James and Lily Potter. Bill Weasley wasn't an Auror, but he was a Curse-Breaker with Gringotts, and Fred and George Weasley owned a storefront. What did they sell again?

"If you're done with your transplants," called Sprout, "you are free to leave."

Hermione picked up her beaded bag and fell in line with the bunch of competent students making their way out the door, happy to leave the sound of complaining flowers behind.

It seemed she was destined to be an eavesdropper today. The group of boys in front of her formed a solid line in front of her, making it hard to overtake them as one normally would. Besides, the presence of Dolohov made her reluctant to do so.

"—willfully anonymous. It is difficult to find anything at all about them. My uncle, even, has little but suspicions."

"An order of wizards that powerful cannot be that elusive surely."

"It is because they are powerful," spoke Dolohov.

"Not mighty enough; if they were, would they not be more brazen? Like Grinde—"

"Well," interrupted Dolohov, "he is no longer an example for us, is he?"

"Yes," agreed Riddle. "Dumbledore bested him."

Grindelwald was not a good example for anyone. For several reasons, and none involved Dumbledore.

The dark haired boy who had mentioned Grindelwald fell silent. Hermione could only see the side of his face, but it didn't appear he much enjoyed being shut up.

"You've discovered nothing, Abraxas? At all?"

"Nothing for certain. My family has suspicions, but it is difficult to separate their own work biases from their observations. Work posses and all."

"Something is better than nothing," replied Riddle.

Behind them, Hermione furrowed her brow. She had never thought the Head Boy could sound so commandeering.

"Uncle Cyrus is of the opinion some in the Auror's Office are at the very least sympathetic to the group. He doubts they have any real pull though; the acquisition was worth too much money, and the sympathetizers don't have any real, generational wealth."

"Could it be new money?"

"My uncle works in Law Enforcement, not Finance. Besides, is no real way to know until it is time for Collections. Even then, it is difficult."

"Oh?"

"New businesses do not need to report earnings for five years if they do not earn much in their first year—if they operate through a store. It's just unlikely any group looking to stay silent would earn money through a company which is required by law and magic to report their earnings."

"People don't misrepresent their earnings?"

"My uncle says unless they've several talented contract lawyers it is near impossible."

"The firm could," said Dolohov. Riddle made a thoughtful noise, and Hermione wondered just how long this hallway was.

"And the Wizengamot?" asked Riddle.

"The Wizengamot seats are tried and true. My uncle believes their ruling was innocent, and does not think they anticipated what they were doing."

"What families?"

"The Crouches. The Umbridges. The Bones. The Rosiers. The Pettigrews. The Potters. The Dumbledores."

"My family as well, though no one has filled the seat as of now," said the Grindelwald-Boy.

"Mine also," supplied the boy named Abraxas. The name rang a very distant bell in Hermione's memory.

"Why not fill the seat if you have it?" asked Riddle.

The boys traveled further down the hall for a few beats before the Head Boy received an answer

"It can be frustrating to occupy space with adamant families who seek to destroy what works for little reason," replied the blonde boy. The Grindelwald-Boy bobbed his head.

"You understand, Riddle, surely? Being locked in a room with loud mudblood-lovers or passive purists."

"All the more reason to claim your rightful place," said Riddle swiftly. He seemed unphased (unphased!) at the boy's casual use of the word, but hearing it uttered made Hermione's body go hot and cold, and a very queer feeling fed itself into her sinuses through her nostrils. It spread along her body. It was in every limb. Before she knew it, her hand not holding her bag was curling in the air, as if scooping up some invisible substance.

All of a sudden, Grindelwald-Lover's bag split open. Books fell out. Hermione was sad to see them upended. A heavy-looking pouch of Galleons spilled in the most troubling manner—all over and in a crowded hallway full of delighted fourth years, who quickly pocketed what they could. In the middle of the scramble, Hermione spied a magical-looking bit of wood, and felt a vicious pride when her boot came down on it.

The crack was lost in Grindelwald-Lover's sudden and loud attempt to conserve as much of his money as possible. No one had seen her do it. It had happened so fast.

She picked up one of the boy's books and stepped closer to the four boys.

"Excuse me, did your friend drop this?" she said to the blonde one. The boy looked down his nose at her as he reclaimed the book.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Hermione said airily, already turning away. She met the sentiment in more ways than one. That hot-cold feeling was all in her chest now. With a swipe of her wand, she directed the scattered books to the blond's unsuspecting arms, savagely watching him struggle under their weight. Genteel prick.

She spared a glance for Riddle, who was not far away, watching his schoolmate trying reclaim his belongings, before choosing to start climbling a staircase. With each step upward, she thought of the conversation she'd overheard. Hermione couldn't fathom why the four of them were so invested in the Brunelleschi story, but she was certain there was a fundamental unfairness afoot.

Someone had selected a bigot to Head her school.

* * *

What do you think? Tell me your thoughts.

Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

4

_Despite your qualifications— _

_Though we find the focus of your independent research—_

_There were many competitive applications this year, both nationally and internationally— _

_Due to an unprecedented—_

_At this time, we regret to inform you— _

The seven rejection letters from a mixture of respected private-and-Ministry funded research residencies were far too much to open at once. Hermione thought she would be able to handle it, but truthfully, she should have thought about opening about three letters each day. Seven was supposed to be a number of magical completion, but as of right now it was just a reminder of her place.

With a sigh, Hermione started to pen seven near-identical _thank you for your considerations_.

Even with Dolohov's assurance of support, it had been a long shot anyway, she mused as she watched ink dry. She was young and teachable, sure, but she was also a liability by nature of her birth; even if her boss was not prejudiced, it was highly unlikely no one would have something to say about the muggleborn newbie. Workplace conflicts were bound to occur, and there was no single quality on paper which could not be found in another candidate. God forbid some news of discriminatory treatment get leaked to the press; they'd have a field day. Hermione understood.

She did.

If she had made a bit more progress in her research, perhaps she would be looking at a different set of letters.

Hermione placed her hands down on the library table. If she bore down hard enough, her hands would stop shaking.

In her third year, professor Lupin had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was a bright Wednesday morning when he'd shown their class a wardrobe. Their assignment was to banish the boggart within. One by one her classmates defeated a version of their fears, and when it had been Hermione's turn, the class was looking at an older, black woman wearing a pair of shades with a pair of keys in hand, a coffee cup in the other. At the buzz of a Nokia she had promptly dropped her cup and rushed to get it.

_Hello? _the woman had answered the phone in Hermione's voice. She had taken off her shades, and Hermione was left to stare at a twin pair of brown eyes. _Hello? Hello? _

_Hello? _Years later Hermione could still hear it ringing in her eyes. _Hello? How do you do? I shall be over shortly. Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?_

That was who Hermione would be, if her pursuits in the Wizarding World failed. Irrational perhaps.

Most fears were.

* * *

Rodolphus had only grown more pitiful after his wand broke in the hallway. The four weeks following had been filled with "oh if only's" and "I would if's" and "the person who broke it should rot." Each time, Antonin and Tom made eye contact, and the more complaints Rodolphus uttered necessitated they make more of it. Tom was far too familiar with the exact shade of the Russian's irises. He could probably recognize it in a sea of browns; his eyes were the exact color of shit.

Abraxas, on the other hand, had developed an acute facial twitch. Tom thought it was unbecoming. Lestrange was bringing down morale.

This weekend was a Hogsmead weekend, and the four of them had traveled to the Hog's Head. A thoughtful wizard had tucked the pub's tables into discreet locations. The windows of the establishment had the kind of Wool's-orphanage-grey coating, as thick and even as newly asphalted roads. The bartender was a rough-looking, tall, older man. His grey pants and shirt matched the precise shade of his stringy beard.

Abraxas gave a sniff and took out a handkerchief. He covered the handle of his butterbeer mug with it and took a quiet sip. Tom watched as he swished it his mouth as if it were wine.

After he swallowed, Abraxas said, "Acceptable."

Tom raised his own glass.

"The glass is filthy. Does the dishwasher not know the basic charms?"

"I doubt this place employs one," observed Antonin, looking unbothered and comfortable in the cracked leather seat. He didn't seem to mind the dirty windows either. "The bartender might be the owner, for all we know."

Right on time, Rodolphus mumbled, "I'd clean the place my damn self, if—"

"You've one more time, Lestrange," cut in Abraxas smoothly. "You've been insufferable since you broke your wand."

"I didn't—"

"You dropped it, didn't you? That's just the same," said Abraxas, looking into the bottom of his now-empty mug with disdain. "Don't burden us because you were incompetent."

With amusement, Tom watched the Lestrange boy's mouth gape open and closed before he decided to throw him a bone.

"How is Bellatrix?"

He regained his footing with a snort. "Just as disinterested as always."

"Funny," said Antonin, who had signaled to the bartender for another round of drinks. "She's been nothing but polite to me."

"Frigidly so," specified Rodolphus, running a hand over his dark stubble. Puberty had been fast and quick for the heir of Lestrange. He looked more a man than a teen.

"To you," snipped Abraxas.

"She is sweet to the rest of us," added Antonin.

Rodolphus looked up at the ceiling. There was mold.

"It's not your fault," Tom offered, still amused.

"Yes," inserted Abraxas. "You're simply not pretty enough."

It was no secret Bellatrix Black loved pretty things—perfume bottles with plush atomizers, brooches inlaid with precious stones, ribbons, corsets, high heels, and jasmine. Tom tamped down his urge to smirk as Rodolphus's eyes flicked to judge his own expression. Lestrange had some misconceptions about Tom and his fiancee—but it wasn't to his benefit to disillusion him yet.

Tom opened his mouth to speak but the loud rumble of an engine interrupted him. The door opened to reveal a tall man who beelined for the bar. The four Slytherins heard a clear, slurred order for "Butterrum." Abraxas scoffed.

"Drunks."

"He is quite highly functioning," observed Antonin. "He was in here often last week."

The three of them cast eyes at the Russian, who shrugged and fiddled with his drink. "The castle feels stifling at times."

The castle was not the issue. It was the people. The attitude. Gryffndor House was full of goody-two-shoed, assertively unambitious loudmouths. Peacocking about as if they were the next best thing since Merlin. Ravenclaws chirped about their unfruitful studies—the lot of them had no clue there was worthwile literature to be found outside Hogwarts and probably soiled themselves the minute they were too close to the Restricted section. The house of yellow ties was playing an endless game of catch-up.

If someone had asked Tom his first year if he was proud to be in Slytherin, his answer would have been an unequivocal yes. He'd expected to be surrounded by his equals. He had been disappointed. His ancient ancestor would be disgusted with the amount of mediocrity living in the house named after him. It was sick—as sick as his family history.

The door opening distracted Tom, and he watched a familiar bushy head march to the bar.

There was no other word for the way Hermione Granger walked—it was nearly always a march. If she was uncertain where she was going, the pace slowed to a stride. She walked as if going to war. A caramel hand met the pale hand of the bartender, who grasped it like an old friend. From his position, he could see the shaggy-haired head of the drunk turn toward her in interest.

"—often?" asked Abraxas. Even without looking at his face, Tom knew the Malfoy was trying to hide another disgusted sniff.

"Often enough. But this place closes early—at ten every night."

"That's late enough. I bet this place is right dead before closing."

Hermione had taken a seat at the bar. From his angle, Tom could see she had parted the vast majority of her hair to one side. The rest was situated behind one proportionate ear.

"Wondrous things happen in the dark," replied Dolohov.

There was a finely hammered, modest golden hoop in her pierced earlobe.

"Indeed," agreed Abraxas.

"Curfew," reminded Rodolphus.

Tom, in perfect unison with the other two, pinned the Lestrange boy with a disbelieving stare, who only shrugged and took a sip of his butterbeer.

"Antya, call for me another glass," said Abraxas, expecting his mug with a more pronounced disdain. "I've spotted mold."

"You are a wizard, are you not? Scourgify it."

"It's the principle," insisted the Malfoy heir.

"You would not call for another glass yourself? You are the one with the problem."

"You won't do me this favor? I would for you, Antya."

"A little mold?" shrugged Antonin. "Me, it does not bother."

"It bothers me."

"It bothers me to ask for a new glass," said the Russian. There was something about his tone which reminded Tom of a cat playing with a new toy.

"It bothers me that you are bothered," returned Abraxas, a falsely serious look in his eye.

"Likewise, it bothers me—"

"Sir!" called Rodolphus. He waited until the bartender paused in his conversation with Granger, who had turned to see who saw the need to yell in an otherwise-empty bar.

Continuing on loudly, Lestrange said, "I'd like another cup of butterbeer. My friend is particular, you see. Bit of a pansy, like. Can't muster the gall to order another drink. Do make sure the glass is clean this time."

The bartender gave the four of them a disbelieving look for a long while, before the Granger girl said something which drew away his attention. There was silence for a few beats at the table the Slytherins shared.

"You'll be lucky if he ever brings another thing to this table, Rodolphus," said Tom in his quiet tone.

"You were uncouth, really," sniffed Abraxas, who pulled out his wand a defeated resolve.

"Insufferable, truly," quipped Antya.

Rodolphus opened his mouth just as a spic-and-span mug of butterbeer floated over to them, to Abraxas's delight.

"Idiot boys," said the gruff bartender, blue eyes grumpy over the wire rim of his glasses.

"Entitled little shits, their lot," said the ragged looking man, who had, up until that moment, been minding his business. He caught the eye of the bartender, Mr. Abe, who said,

"Quite a mouth."

"S'justifed. One of those prats—" pointing a surprisingly fine finger at the group, "—is engaged to my ickle niece. Smart as a whip."

"Surely it isn't bad as all that," said Mr. Abe, sounding thoroughly disinterested.

The man nodded his shaggy head of hair, and Hermione caught a glimpse of bright, gray eyes.

"It's the family," insisted the man, who was quite coherent for someone who was supposed to be four drinks in. "Those families…" he trailed off.

Hermione knew what he meant.

Swaying in his seat, the man's head lolled as he surveyed the room, eyes distant. His gaze stopped on her chest. Hermione felt an urge to slap him all of a sudden—she didn't tolerate perverts.

"Nice tie," he slurred.

"Thank you," she said, because it seemed rude to ignore him, and because she did not know what else to say.

"You're one o' them?" he gestured crudely to the group of boys.

Hermione thought of the conversation she had overheard. Of new money. Wizengamot seats. Of broken wands.

"We're of the same House," she said.

"A snake, are you? Snakey girl. Snake snake, _shnakes,_" said the man, spinning around on his stool. Hermione caught a whiff of cedar.

For a drunk man, he certainly didn't smell of alcohol.

"Mister Abe, has my shipment come in?" Between the presence of her classmates and the weird, non-drunk-drunk man, Hermione was ready to leave. Most Hogsmeade visits she spent visiting with the man in front of her or picking up stationary from Scrivenshaft's. But this weekend was different; she was due to submit a care package for Paulina along with news of a new development in her research.

"From the islands," said Mister Abe's muffled voice. He was underneath the bar counter. He rose with a twelve pack of glass drinks. Hermione reached out a hand, running her fingertips over the engraved surface of the nearest bottle. "The ginger-butterbeer you love."

In Hermione's opinion, there were many wonderful things about the Caribbean, but the fusion of ginger beer and butterbeer was by far the best. That, and—

"The _malta _you requested."

Hermione waved her hand to set the two twelve-packs afloat. The drunk man looked surprised, registering the clinking of glass, and Hermione's auspiciously absent wand.

"You're a doll," she responded, watching as Abe gave a cough to hide his growing smile. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I must be on. Pauly's got a gift coming her way; the owl I send may not be able to carry it all."

"Shrink it down?" offered Abe with a raised brow. That's why she liked the bartender so much—he was a problem solver as well as a wonderful listener. He was wicked with charms, too.

"Food gets a metal taste when it's been shrunk," Hermione said. "Not pleasant."

"Useful knowledge," replied Abe. His eyes traveled to consider the four boys.

Hermione waved her goodbye, pushing the door to Hog's Head open. There was a gleaming motorcycle parked near the entrance, which was curious. But Hermione was on a mission, and Scrivenshaft's would be closing soon.

* * *

_Pauly, _

_Things are looking up; in the other envelope, I have included a new incantation and wand movement, if you are willing to try it. I've also enclosed a bunch of treats. You liked the butterbeer—this time I've sent the gingered version. And malta. It's sweet, but has an adult flavor. _

_Do let me know if the new incantation works. _

_Conspiratorially,_

_H._

_P.S. Abe says hello. And do give the delivery owl a treat? It's a long journey._

After sending the message, Hermione gave an apologetic look to the handsome owl she had coaxed from its perch. The white owl which she had relied on to send her follow-up messages last week was nowhere to be found. The other Hogwarts owls had been reluctant once their large eyes fastened on the large parcel Hermione had been lugging behind her.

"I know," she said sympathetically. "But Paulina will have treats for you, and if you visit me during mealtimes I will save a bit of sasuage. In case you come to visit."

The owl shook out its wings, dipping a beak to pick at an errant feather. The larger animal held out a talon.

"Good sport," Hermione said. And then she took another appreciative look at the owl, noting the shine of the feathers.

"You're a beautiful creature," she said, offering another treat.

The owl gave a head bob that seemed far too regal, as if the bird was saying _this we both know. _Hermione was reminded of Crookshanks. She bid the owlery goodbye and left, making her way back to Slytherin's dorms. She thought about returning to her makeshift lab, but she had spent every leisure hour there for the last month, pouring over Paulina's past letters.

When Hermione came up with a new attempt at a spell, she sent it to Paulina. The original intent had just been to have another set of eyes on her guesswork—for that is what her work was without practical application, an informed guess. An inference. But Pauly had started casting Hermione's inferences on herself, and subjected to twenty-four hour observation periods, cataloging the effects she felt.

The first of these entries had been short—the last couple had been promising. Some of them indicated setbacks; one of Hermione's variations had set Pauly on a hallucinogenic trip where her attackers had, in Paulina's words, "blended into the most miraculous, jewel-toned rainbow skin-soup, crying all the while." A revision of that spell rendered Paulina "pleasantly numb," and she had managed to trek outside to look at some flowers. That had been an improvement; until that moment, Paulina had been unwilling to even look at the entrance to her home.

This iteration was a new one; Hermione had resolved to look at other magical methods for healing trauma after Paulina shared she used a mix of potions and Muggle balms to ward away the worst of her symptoms. The wild idea had come to her during a stint in Advanced Potions, where they were tasked with brewing a better-tasting version of the Draught of Peace.

She had counted the unique number of color changes the Draught undergoes during its formulation as her guide for the number of syllables in her incantation, mirrored the action of stirring in her wand movement, and asked Paulina to undergo two different trials—a verbal and nonverbal spelling.

She had no idea what possessed her to make such radical changes to her approach, but she had been at a standstill since she had last spoken to Professor Hilbert, who had recently shaken her head in dismay when Hermione had given her an update. That had been months ago, and after a frenzy of studying for midterm exams, the frequency of her time in her lab, and a steadily growing, if reluctant, reliance on coffee, Hermione had been high strung.

She would maintain she was in total control during the course of experimentation. Even if her vision had doubled occasiona—

What was that?

She could have sworn she heard a sharp sound. As if someone had been slapped.

Right as rain. Grindelwald-Boy was sporting an angry looking red mark on his face. Nearby was a tall female. She had a head full of waist-length, corkscrew curls. The pair was close enough for Hermione to properly envy the glossiness of the other female's hair.

Oh, if only.

There was no way to avoid their presence—there were very few side doors on the seventh floor—so Hermione resolved to move further down the corridor, catching bits of hissed conversations.

"—well to keep your hands to yourself," hissed the woman. The duo's pace had slowed, and they were now standing in the hallway, trading jibes.

"I'm only exercising my marital rig—"

"Please," said the female, touching a hand to her hair and flipping open a compact, "you couldn't even spell—"

"—ght, and it is your duty—"

"Duty?" she said, voice snapping like the closed compact mirror in her balled fist. "I owe you nothing."

"Your dowry—"

"Oh, then give it back," she responded with a roll of her eyes. Grindelwald-Boy started squawking and the way his cheek muscles jumped gave the impression there was an image of a large, red, dancing jellybean on his right cheek.

Hermione was trying her best to look ahead, but she caught the eye of the woman, who gave her a thorough up-and-down scan before her lips stretched in a wide smile.

Her teeth were perfect—proportionate and white. Just like the rest of her.

"Granger, is it?" she said aloud.

Hermione blinked. "Have we met?"

The other girl waved away her question, extending her hand. Hermione took it, for no other reason than because she didn't know how politely refuse it. It wasn't a handshake, which is what Hermione had been prepared for. Rather, Hermione was holding the other girl's hand as if she was about to kiss it.

"Bellatrix Black," she said with an even wider smile.

"Hermione," she said.

"You've the most lovely hair," she said, eyes raking over the frizzy curls with a look of appreciation. "I've intended to tell you for ages, though I've only seen you in passing."

Hermione's eyebrows raised, her thanks spilling from her mouth somewhat inelegantly. She was in the middle of making a gesture to Bellatrix's own hair, perhaps to strike a conversation up about products, when—

"Oh, don't pretend with the mudblood," said the Grindelwald-Boy irritably.

Hermione's spine stiffened as her hand twitched. He was close enough to punch.

"I visited India in the summer. They've infused sesame oil with amla powder." Bellatrix gave a winning smile at Hermione's noise. "You've heard of it?"

"I've a cousin in the States who swears by it, but it's never crossed my mind to use. Is it good for dry hair, or..?"

"Well, I use it with a bit of watered down Sleekeazy's when my hair is still wet—"

Hermione nodded. "Good combination."

"Angelina introduced it to me. Do you know her? Angelina Johnson," said Bellatrix, peering at her now.

Hermione had to stop herself from answering too quickly. Long, coily hair fashioned into waist-length mini-braids, smooth skin with a glow little seen among other pale faces. Johnson had been in the process of locking her hair; she had told Hermione that early during breakfast during her fifth year, when Hermione had been missing her mother's family and was wanting for a skin-folk friend. She had sidled up next to her at Gryffndor's table, and Angelina had welcomed her with a smile and a quick quip of "I was wondering when we'd meet."

"We're familiar." She and Hermione still traded owls quarterly. Angelina was a bookkeeper for a jokeshop in Diagon Alley. Her spouse was an older gentleman she called Gid for short. He was a humanitarian who was currently aiding in international efforts to offer support for wizarding Rwanda, and she'd recently taken a holiday to surprise him there.

"She's a darling," said Bellatrix with a feminine hand movement. She spoke with her hands. They were slender and topped with quite fetching nails, despite their short length.

Hermione found herself nodding, "I admire her."

"So did I," said Bellatrix, and there was a wistfulness in her tone Lestrange bristled at.

He cleared his throat.

"Who are you?" Hermione said lightly, half his name already forgotten, swiveling to look at the boy. "Are you the one whose wand broke?"

Waiting until the boy's mouth opened to respond, Hermione rushed to continue, "It was tragic, really—I would not wish a broken wand on my worst enemy. I read it can be difficult to find a replacement—compatibility, you know. It wouldn't be a problem for a wizard used to nonverbal spelling, but who really is nowadays?" At this her gaze flitted to Bellatrix before flitting back to the other boy.

"I suppose it can be difficult for someone like you especially, totally integrated into the magical way of living. Muggles have their own ways of dealing, part of the benefit of having a base in both—I imagine most magical families have an unhealthy reliance on magic—prob'ly feel like infants without their wand." Hermione took a breath and instead titled her head at the boy before her, thinking of how easily his wand had broken underneath the sole of her shoe, the steadily reddening mark on his face, the way that word had left his mouth way too easily, calculating how easy it would be to leave a twin mark on the other cheek.

"Are you insulting me?"

Hermione kept her face blank. "I'm sympathetic to your plight."

"You filthy mud—"

"Your name?" interrupted Hermione. She wanted to punch him. She wouldn't, though.

There was a beat, during which Bellatrix supplied, "Rodolphus. Rodolphus Lestrange."

"Ah. Well, I hope you do find a replacement for your wand," Hermione said. She moved past the couple.

"It would be a shame, honestly, if you could not find another before we get into the swing of final exams," she tossed over her shoulder.

She passed a couple more familiar faces as she made her way toward the stairs.

"Head Boy," she nodded. "Shame about your friend, there."

"Friend?"

"Oh," she said, putting a hand to her mouth. She was lying now. "Couldn't remember the given name if I tried." She also couldn't remember slowing her pace, but now, undoubtedly, she was standing with the Head Boy. And his blond friend.

"Bellatrix?"

"No," she said. "She was lovely. The other one, though—the one with no filter."

"Oh?" Riddle said, tone politely clueless. The set of the jaw suggested the opposite.

Hermione chanced a look at Abraxas, and the disdain she found there, steaming on low heat, made her neck feel hot under her hair.

"A word?" she asked, already stepping to the side, further down the hall.

Tom had no choice but to follow. Hermione looked particularly fetching; at the end of the school day, her hair was tossed and large. Wild. _Like a lion, _offered his mind. He was not interested in teasing out all the implications of such an association, but nevertheless, it was there.

"Yes," she said, meeting Riddle's eyes again, careful to pronounce each syllable. "It seems he has a penchant for using words he shouldn't. Loudly."

The light from the windows was fading quickly. She looked lovely in the warm, golden light of the torches—all clear, brown skin and browner eyes.

"I don't understand," said Riddle, his own eyes now earnest, though his jaw remained tight. "Has he said something to you, Miss Granger?"

Before Hermione could fashion a reply, Riddle rushed to continue, "It is unlike Rodolphus to offend anyone. Did you two have a disagreement? Is there something I could do?"

There was something so sincere about his body language. The right amount of apologetic willingness one would expect from a parent figure. But then Hermione thought about how Riddle had nothing to say for his friend when he'd been discussing why his family refused their Wizengamot seat. "Mudblood-lovers," he had said.

"Lestrange is your friend?" she asked.

"Well, yes."

"A close one?

She was even attractive like this, his mind noted needlessly. Furrowed brow, crossed arms and all.

Riddle blinked at her sharp tone, keeping a placid expression. _No._ "Yes. I consider him to be."

"He has a habit of saying words he shouldn't. Derogatory ones," she said, feeling like a broken record.

Tom knew the company he kept—he had to bite back a high-pitched laugh. "Really?" he said instead. "Like what?"

And the way Hermione heard Riddle say it, like he was really surprised his friend would say something offensive, as if he would never imagine a single slur passing the lips of his school chum, like Hermione was _lying— _

"Your friend called me a 'mudblood,'" she said, watching Riddle's face change, the false concern falling away fast. Hermione turned her eye to Abraxas as she continued, "You have a couple of friends who like to call muggleborns 'mudblood.'"

"Miss Granger—"

"And I wonder—" she said loudly, before she collected herself. "I find it curious the Head Boy would not, at the very least, attempt to keep his close friends from casually saying what are widely considered slurs, both internationally and locally, or at the very least remind them not to utter the word in public."

She knew she was using too many adverbs. She had a tendency to do so when she was upset.

"Miss Granger, on the behalf of my friends—"

"Do you personally say the word, Mr. Riddle?" At this, the Head Boy reared, if slightly. Hermione saw a chink and pressed forward.

"After all, birds of a feather flock—"

"I can assure you, I—"

"And it would be horrible, if in 1998, the Headmaster had selected, innocently, of course, someone unfit to serve all students. Including students like me."

At this, Riddle was silent, a sullen look on his face.

_Well? _Hermione wanted to scream.

"Have you something to say in defense of yourself?"

But the boy remained silent. There was something boiling in his eyes, and as Hermione came down from whatever lofty place she went to understand very suddenly she was in a hallway with three unknown people, who knew each other, but did not know her, on an otherwise empty floor. She had watched others get cursed for much less than what she had said.

"Defend myself?" Riddle said in a smooth voice. "You talk as if we're fighting. We are having a conversation."

"By all means."

Yet silent it stayed.

"You've taken offense to a word, Miss Granger?" he said eventually.

"If someone insulted you on account of little else but birth, would you?" she countered.

_Yes. _"If I knew it to be an illogical basis for insult, no," he lied.

"Would it not bother you tomorrow if you heard them talk that way about a half-blood?"

"What are you implying?" _What did she know? _

"Would it? Then their insults would apply directly to you. The last name is Riddle, right? It's certainly not a pureblooded name."

Tom had managed, quite brilliantly, to avoid the topic of his birth with most of his comrades. For any rough spots, Antonin or Bellatrix was always around to smooth things right over. If Tom had it his way, every sordid detail of his birth would die with the remaining members of his family. _In time, _he consoled himself, thinking of the ring currently Illusioned on his hand. Morfinn and his mother were long dead, as well as the stupid old man Gaunt. All that was left was his biological father, and as soon as he could donate time to track him down, he, too, would be a nonissue.

Then Tom would be free.

"Well?"

There was very little Tom could say to satisfy Granger—she was far too smart for a typical gas-light, and any off-handed phrase would be insufficient.

"I understand your concern, Miss Granger. You feel as if I failed as Head Boy by allowing my friends to say certain words—" at the muggleborn's narrowed eyes, Tom resolved to continue "—and I am inclined to soothe your thoughts. I will speak with my friends."

"You intimate my concern is mostly personal," she said after a time, hands now tucked behind her back. "I speak up out of interest of maintaing the honor of Head Boy and our House."

_Oh? _"I do not believe I understand, Miss Granger," Tom said, curious just to hear where the girl was going.

The female Slytherin took a look around before she took a step into Tom's space. He could smell her now—something like jasmine and another scent, mixed with her own musk—could see the drop-pearl earrings dangling from her lobes—the dainty necklace winking from her neck.

"You know it. I know it. Blood supremacy makes little sense. Our school and House should be on the right side of history," she said quietly.

He did know it.

"You are concerned about image," Tom stated.

"The company you keep is," she said instead. "Antonin has been quite helpful."

Tom had nothing to say to this. Antonin had been helpful at his directive—attempting to trade information about pureblooded culture for answers about Hermione's research. In the months of their interactions, all the Russian wizard had managed to uncover was Hermione's penchant for nonverbals, and her strong passion for elven rights. Something about how pureblood-elf serfdom reminded her of a far more egregious, if more American, error.

With a glance at said company, Granger slipped away with a "by your leave."

She was out the corridor before Tom could say another word.

* * *

Thank you for reading. What are your thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

5

The job search had been an on-going process which was proving to be more exhaustive than promising. Privately, the hiring committee bemoaned its pace, and the selection committee agreed. It would be easier by far to fill the position by alternative means (read: by word of mouth and invitation). But the position they were looking to fill was niche. The selection pool was small, and no single applicant was anyone any single member of the hiring committee knew.

A certain family had donated a large sum following the recommendation from a certain family. The monetary room the donating family had created with their contribution allowed for a five-year salary for one (1) aspiring R&D team member, at the contributing family's express desire. They'd been informed by the founders of the firm there would be no promises on who the position would go to, to which the family had no objections. It was a standard transaction, but the identity and reputation of the families involved were a first for the relatively new firm, who had made their political stances quite clear. One simply wouldn't expect Brunelleschi & Vaughn's views to be compatible with the likes of the Malfoys.

Well.

Even house elves have been known to riot.

Nonetheless, the space had proven hard to fill. Truthfully, they were inclined toward hiring a female witch, for no other reason than the gender ratios of their team suffered from a lack of "feminine energy." More truthfully, their ideal candidate needed to be more than familiar with a specific type of magic. It was not an uncommon focus, especially after _the Prophet _broke the story of Brunelleschi & Vaughn nearly five years ago, but background checks on some promising candidates had made the selection committee skeptical of their ethics. Some of their "perfect fits" had been lured away with promises of better benefits, or offered raises at their current jobs, and so had declined B&V's offer.

"This one graduated top of their class in 1999," said Remus Lupin, handing over a folder.

"Where from?" Their job search had attracted the best and brightest of several wizarding schools.

"Hogwarts," replied Lily Potter.

A pair of bespectacled eyes observed the file. Thin, red eyebrows raised. "No steady job," the ginger noted.

"She comes highly recommended," said the other redhead.

"By?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asked, who had yet to see the file. Fabian, bless his heart, was a slow reader, if thorough.

"Anika Hilbert. Filius Flitwick."

"Professors at her school," Lily said. This had been standard among most of their applicants.

"Paulina Abramovich." At this Lily and Kingsley started. Paulina's story was still a case study used during Auror training, though they had heard she had recently been collaborating with a young researcher on memory- and trauma-related spelling. Through risky self-experimentation Paulina had conquered most of the side effects she'd been left with after a bout of Cruciatus torture. She had been active in the Eastern Wizarding world for the last two years and was just starting to get some attention on the international stage.

"And?" Lily asked.

"Selene Vulchanov," Fabian said.

"Of the Vulchanov's?" clarified Kingsley.

The Vulchanov family was research royalty—a female member of their family was the founder of Durmstrang. They were a mixed family as well—tied to the Muggle royal line in Bulgaria. Selene Vulchanov was a patron of the collective cutting edge; her generosity was infamous. There was no reason to ask Miss Granger about her and Selene's acquaintance. The Vulchanov had detailed their entire history, and all letters had been charmed for authenticity.

"She's twenty-three," Remus said disbelievingly. Lily privately agreed—this applicant was the same age as her son.

The four at the long table straightened as the door opened.

Whatever they had been expecting of Hermione Granger was not what walked through the door. The first thing they realized was she dressed in Muggle workwear. Her brown pencil skirt suit is tailored to her figure. She wore brown, sheer pantyhouse tucked into a pair of cocoa pumps. There was an emerald brooch attached to her left lapel.

The sound of her heels clicking on the wooden floor was the only sound in the suprised silence.

"Miss Granger," Remus said. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for having me," she replied. Her voice was quiet.

"I am Remus Lupin. I will be conducting your interview along with Miss Lily Potter, Mister Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Mister Fabian Prewett."

"Pleased to meet you," she said. She swallowed the _yuh_ sound in _you _and replaced it with a _chuh _sound. The affect sounded American.

"Per your application you consented to the administration of Veritaserum before this interview. I trust our secretary administered it properly?"

"Three drops," the woman replied.

"Where are you from?" Kingsley asked, no doubt picking up on the inconsistency in her accent.

"My mother is from the American South. My father is from Northampton. They live in Brixton now."

"I like Brixton," said Fabian, who had a way of softening applicants with polite conversation. "The Floo travel to Diagon seems a bit more pleasant from that way."

Miss Granger gave a tight smile and clasped her hands together. "I will take your word for it."

"You graduated from Hogwarts, Miss Granger?" Lily asked. The interviewee nodded.

"What house?"

"Slytherin, Miss Potter," Granger said as she touched her brooch.

Lily followed the movement of her hand before she looked down to her notes. "How interesting."

"Miss Granger," Kingsley started. "You graduated in 1999. In your application a recommendation from an employer is missing. Have you worked in the last six years?"

"The job search proved difficult after I graduated. I inquired to work in several research labs. The positions went to those better suited."

"Then what did you do for work?"

"I was visiting family abroad—they own quite a bit of farmland in Kentucky—and I stayed to research and live with them for some years."

So her family sponsored her for a few years, the committee assumed. Very fortunate.

"What did you research?" asked Remus.

"I did a lot of traveling in the States and worked with some wizards researching the intersection of space, place, and land memory."

"Where in the States? I may be familiar," chimed in Fabian.

"I was charting the sites of lynchings down the Mississippi River. I spent a lot of time in New Orleans. The wizards there have a deep belief that land has the ability to remember what has happened in it. I was interested in the implications—that land could remember, and its memory could influence the effectiveness of magic. Naturally, if the land, or," this the girl said as a throwaway, scratching with a manicured nail at the corner of her full lip, "_American_ land, at any rate, could remember, I was convinced it could forget. I studied memory charms and their creation throughout my career at Hogwarts."

"Land sentience," said Fabian, to which Miss Granger nodded. "It is a theory Europe is hesitant to entertain."

"Was any of your research in New Orleans fruitful?" Lily asked.

"In short, no, but I still keep in touch with the research team there. They work in tandem with another team in the Everglades; they're hoping to use land sentience theory to reclaim shoreline inches. I was last informed they had gained two inches, or roughly five centimeters on the coast closest to the Gulf."

"Do you view sentience theory as a potential path to further spell innovation?" At this, Hermione straightened.

"At the very least," she said, "I view it as a helpful thought device. Regarding land as intelligent may make us more mindful about what we build on top of it. It can even allow for possibilities otherwise unfathomable. I read the first Runic accounts on the Undectable Extension Charm. I think the spell's creator would embrace the theory."

"I want to take a moment to talk about your recommendation letters," said Remus. "Paulina Abramovich—how do you know her?"

"Paulina and I have been corresponding since my fourth year. I reached out to her."

Oh. Kingsley blinked rapidly before he collected himself.

"She says you have been instrumental in the development of the trauma-curses she later patented." Paulina had invented three countercurses for the effects the Cruciactus.

"Did she?" Miss Granger said, managing to look surprised and pleased. "She is very kind. We both agreed countering the effects of the Cruciactus was an area of study. It felt relevant and personal for both of us."

"What hand did you have in the actualization of the spells?" asked Remus.

"Originally we planned to create one catch-all spell. Most of the foundational figuring and conceptualization was by my hand—the ideal number of syllables, the wand movements, the precedent for the spell. I consulted with Professor Hilbert for those parts. As I mentioned earlier, one of my focuses is memory and recall charms, and I approached the problem from that angle."

"All of the spells patented by Miss Abramovich credit the Draught of Peace for the figuring," pointed out Lily.

"Correct. At the time I was reading essays about the nature of the Draught of Peace and whether peace, as a concept, was truly able to be manufactured. Some posited the Draught was really a multilayered, benign memory potion. I took a chance and did the figuring."

"Risky," Lily replied with a smile.

"But the later work was done by Paulina," Miss Granger was quick to say. She smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt as the selection committee digested her response.

"You mentioned memory and recall charms were your specialty."

"Yes."

"I think I speak for everyone when I say we recognize the potential for a memory specialist on the Brunelleschi-Vaughn development team. Advanced locks, discerning doors, improvements on the Extension Charm family…" Kinglsey trailed off.

"Indeed," Miss Granger replied, nodding as she clasped her hands in her lap. "In the ways which memory can be forgotten or recovered, memory can be fabricated, even in inanimate objects. A sink can 'remember' to wash the dishes it holds every Wednesday night at precisely half-eight. A room can be convinced to 'remember' how big it once was and expand. A door can 'remember' visitors. A rug can 'forget' its stains."

"Your statements imply even inanimate objects possess sentience. Or at least an awareness."

"Wands choose wizards, but my findings in the last years are, by-and-by, mostly inconclusive," Miss Granger said. "I hope to discover the answer here in London."

"What brings you to London?"

"I would like to connect with the English spelling community," she said. "When I left the social climate was quite different, but I was assured by friends things had changed."

"What changes are you expecting?"

Miss Granger looked down, seeming to steel herself. "I found attitudes toward blood purity to be outdated," she said.

"We agree," Lily Potter was quick to respond.

Miss Granger's hand touched her emerald brooch again.

Oh.

"How did you hear about this job, Miss Granger?"

"A school acquaintance pulled my coattails," she said. "I was immediately interested. I remember when the story of the Wizengamot broke. I've kept up the patents and journal entries coming from some who work here for a while. The statistical analysis on accidental magic among low-to-high income magical families stands out. Especially once the range expanded to include Carthage, Egypt, and into the greater East."

"Chang and Patil will be glad to know. That project took years, Merlin knows," said Fabian.

"Development prides itself on the diverse methods of problem-solving its members bring," said Remus, positively sounding like an employee handbook. "Our development style is open-lab and every two weeks we employ in-department critiques. Every half-year is a research-specific presentation where members of a sister company are encouraged to ask their own questions. The interconnectedness we share here has yielded plentiful fruit, but, as we deal with a multitude of experts, it can lead to disagreements. How do you handle constructive criticism?"

"Working in the States taught me so much," said Miss Granger. "The Americans think of the fundamentals of magic differently. I had to be careful to not impose my 'foreign' concepts upon my partners."

"Would you say you handle criticism well?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Should you disagree with a colleague," Kingsley started, "how do you give criticism?"

Miss Granger gave a thoughtful hum before she replied, "Dignity and reciprocity are important. I treat others how I'd like to be treated. Straight-to-the-point, but gentle."

The committee seemed to nod as one, and Miss Granger let out a breath, giving her skirt a miniscule tug.

"What do you expect working from here, Miss Granger?"

"Community is important to me," she said almost immediately. "And freedom. I need the two to create properly."

"What else do you need, Miss Granger?" This was from Fabian. Miss Granger blinked in what may have been surprise. The implication was strong in his tone.

"Am I to assume—?"

"We are ready to discuss payment, Miss Granger," said Remus Lupin. "Unless you have some questions for us."

The black woman seemed to waver in her seat, brown eyes flicking between each member of the interview commitee.

"Yes," she decided finally. "I've several." And what left her mouth only solidified the committee's resolve.

Their search was over.

* * *

Let me know your thoughts.

Thank you for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Tom truthfully had no business being in a bar—he had tried one flute of champagne to commemorate his graduation from Hogwarts six years ago, and had loathed the floaty feeling in his stomach and the way his vision spun when he moved too quickly. But Antonin had friends to meet. Abraxas was happy to imbibe, and Bellatrix was in the business of marital escape by any means, so too frequently he ended up in hole-in-the-wall establishments in the Knockturn district.

It was a convenient set-up; his job mostly consisted of hours arguing over word choice with coworkers who were just as particular as him when they were not rotting away with the tomes they consulted. Magical Law-Writing for the Ministry was rewarding. His department absorbed his living expenses and afforded him a cushy month-long paid holiday period. Any healer visit was covered. The Ministry also covered his work lunches and morning office hours had an ever-rotating selection of breakfast pastries.

This was a new setting; Bellatrix had heard of a new hole-in-the-wall the four of them might wallow in. It was near the new-money district of Diagon. but even Abraxas's protests had been silenced under his cousin's determination. It was nice enough. If one liked that sort of thing. The bar was dimly lit. From his perch he could only see a flashes of teeth. It was warm here. The heat muddled him. The swell of voices served as a continuous low hum. Tom nursed his water (no ice, thank you) and wondered if he was ready to Apparate home.

A door opened somewhere off to his right, but Tom could not be bothered to look.

He felt very warm.

"All right, there, lad?" asked the bartender, watching the tall, slender man with no small amount of amusement.

"I might be ready to go home," Tom replied, tongue feeling heavy. What had Bellatrix slipped in his hand earlier? What did she say it was?

"Elven wine is strong," said the bartender out loud.

Tom couldn't find it in him to scowl, instead straightening out his shirt before rising. He swayed a little, but he was good for Apparating. Well. Maybe side-along.

The first person he found was Abraxas, who had obviously had more than he. Bellatrix was not even an option. Tom needed Antonin.

"Antya," he called to the Russian's back.

The other man was in deep conversation with a woman who was running a hand down a tall, fluted glass. In the low light, her smile was brilliant against her dark complexion. She leaned forward to lay a fond hand on Antonin's forearm. She looked a bit familiar.

"Antya," he called again, fidgeting now. His stomach was uncomfortably warm.

"Tom," Antonin said. "You remember Miss Granger. A Hogwarts chum of mine."

"Hermione Granger," he said, if a little thickly. "I remember. How are you?"

As Hermione withdrew her hand from Antya's forearm and shook her head back, Tom's eyes were drawn to her curls—they bounced a bit, and looked wilder than Bellatrix's. Two gems dangled from each ear and caught a bit of errant light.

"I'm well, thank you. Have we met?"

And if Tom had been a bit tipsy before, that sobered him up immediately.

"Tom Riddle," Antonin said. "He was Head Boy our seventh year."

Tom found himself leaning in hear the woman's response, but she just gave a guileless smile and shook her head. It was the type of smile one reserves for instances such as the one Tom was in now, the very exact smile meant to smooth over any awkwardnesses.

"It was just so long ago," the Granger woman said, and her eyes flicked over him with all the politeness of a stranger.

"The two of you have met before," Antonin pressed lightly, raising his glass as his eyes darted between the two in question.

"It'd be lovely to get reacquainted," Tom said. "I'm Tom Riddle. You can call me Tom."

"Nice to meet you, Mister Riddle," she said before she raised her glass and sipped, surveying the room, looking all the part of a woman meeting someone new who was not particularly interesting.

Antya coughed into his own drink, and the look he shot Tom made him feel as if he were missing a joke.

_We've talked before, _Tom almost said, but the timing wasn't right, and it wasn't like the two of them had had anything but somewhat hostile interactions, then Granger made some excuse to slip away, and then Antonin was side-along-ing the two of them to Tom's.

Dolohov was his roommate. When the Russian had learned Tom had accepted a job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he had asked Tom to dinner, presented a list of reasons why cohabiting would be advantageous for both of them, and reminded Tom Antonin was a respectable chef when he was not taking jobs as a Hit Wizard.

Tom had accepted, Dolohov paid for their dinner and they went looking for new places the next day. They had settled in a part of old money Diagon, where older wizarding families frequently put up the younger members of their houses.

Because the both of them were employed by a department that absorbed the cost of their living expenses, the two never squabbled over making rent. The MLE allowed for a fairly generous housing stipend and combining their two stipends widened their options considerably. They lived in Diagon Alley now, and the freedom in their budget allowed for spacious options. Real space, too—not the doctored up Undetectable Expansion Charms firms like Brunelleschi & Vaughn specialized in.

Their suite was old, old luxury. The bedroom floors were made from a light wood arranged in a herringbone pattern, the bathrooms from marble tiles. Their offices and the living room were carpeted, but prettily so. The large living room was lit by a tasteful assortment of lamps graciously donated to them by the Blacks. The lampshades, they were told, were made from the skin of a species of gigantic Amazonian bioluminescent earthworm. They glowed a warm, light magenta light. Salmon-colored pillows with green tassels sat on complementary floral upholstered furniture with curled, wooden feet.

"Why did she thank you?" he asked Antonin, after the two of them had bathed and sat lounging in the living room, nursing cups of tea.

Antonin knew what he was talking about.

"She kept in contact with me," Antya said, looking comfy sitting cross-legged in yellow silk pajama shirt and shorts. The man barely had the whereabout to fully button it up—his slight chest was partially on display.

"She with you?"

"After some prompting. But she likes having pen pals. We traded snacks. Have you ever had tabasco sauce? It is very appetizing."

"You will have to cook it for me."

"It is more of a condiment. We will try it on eggs in the morning," said Antonin with a resolute nod.

"Do you two only talk about food?"

Antya hummed.

"About two years ago, I met a woman at a club—"

"Oh?" Tom replied knowingly, "What kind of club?"

"A club," Antonin repeated. "A respectable establishment."

"Of course."

"The woman… she invited me to her home. Eventually, she fell asleep. I was having trouble sleeping, so I got curious."

Tom leaned back and threw an arm over the back of the sofa he sat in. "Curious" was Dolohov's way of saying he went snooping.

"She was a researcher collecting statistics."

"What about?"

"Not important."

"What lab?"

"Do you remember the little Wizengamot scandal from our seventh year?"

Tom let out a delighted gasp.

"Yes."

"So do you know—?"

"No, but I made some probes. The Bones and my family are cordial. Someone let slip a lab was looking to hire on another team member, but was wanting for funding. I knew a family who was looking for a new cause to plan a benefit for."

"So the particularly insufferable one thrown by Narcissa…?" That benefit had been insufferable because Narcissa Black had recently taken over duties as the heir to the Black estate (Bellatrix had been married and Andromeda was widely suspected to be "in love" with a muggle) and invited every pureblooded family she could think of, all of whom brought gifts and preened as was customary. Grimmauld Place had been spruced up and spotless, but it had been hard to enjoy the setting due to the prevalence of stiff upper lips, tailored robes, and tales of vacations.

Antonin nodded.

"How much did she know?"

"Mm. A bit."

"A bit?" Tom asked with raised eyebrows.

"Enough."

"Why, Antya? All those poor, old Galleons. They really sponsor any cause."

"It is a good cause," said Antonin, with little conviction. "And I was curious."

"You just wanted to know more about that firm. You thought that money would make tongues waggle."

"What, and you would not want to know? They were not my Galleons." Antonin took a sip of his tea and crossed his legs.

"So two years pass."

"Two years pass," Antonin agreed. "They were having trouble filling the position because they were looking for a niche specialization. Mind magic. Hermione mentioned she knew a bit about that, so I mentioned the opening."

"Antya, you puppet master."

"I did not give her the position. I barely know what she is researching."

"She didn't tell you tonight?"

"I suspect it is a condition of their employment. Proprietary lab secrets."

"What, like a Fidelius?"

"Who knows? Proprietary lab. Proprietary spells."

"How curious," Tom mused.

"Precisely," Antonin returned.

That Antonin would keep Tom posted was a given.

Tom let his head loll back on the couch, staring at the high ceiling. Brunelleschi and Vaughn continued to be an odd duck; their lab produced patents, new inventions, and studies somewhat regularly, but the names attached to the work were rarely published. None of the geniuses at the firm had a press persona—not like Albus Dumbledore or Nicholas Flamel. Even Brunelleschi and Vaughn themselves were mute after the initial _Prophet _story broke.

"She knew who you were, you know," Antonin said after a time.

Tom huffed a chuckle.

"She did. Miss Granger is a good actor."

"Indeed," Tom said, leaving it at that. He thought about the cool look she had passed over him, the way she had smiled so polite and so empty.

"I do not blame her," Antonin said.

Tom turned his attention onto his roommate, who only shrugged and stood up to retire to his bedroom.

The two of them were right: Hermione had recognized Tom almost immediately. Tom Riddle possessed one of those striking, baroque faces, he was unlawfully tall, and, but for broadened shoulders and a healthy amount of lean muscle, looked largely unchanged from his Hogwarts days. But she had no interest in playing nice with someone like him, especially after a long day in the lab.

It had been a few short weeks since Hermione had started in the Development branch of Brunelleschi and Vaughn. Her first few reviews had went well, and after settling in, Hermione had felt comfortable inviting Dolohov out. He was the entire reason she had even landed the job to begin with; if he had not put her on notice, Hermione would still be down in South Louisiana, sweating.

Really, she owed it to him to be kind. A drink was the least she could do.

But.

It didn't do well to be _too _charitable. Dolohov still had his tendencies—during the six years after graduation, he would salt their correspondences with the occasional "theoretical" question that made Hermione blink. She never answered those theoreticals, and half of her nearly believed he continued to include them just to unnerve her.

At any rate, Dolohov had not allowed her to purchase a single drink, insisting everything they order be put on his tab. They'd been discussing the merits of Wizarding credit cards—rather, Hermione had been explaining the concept of debit to Dolohov, who had been politely curious but all together disapproving. Most modern coin purses were charmed to offset the weight of the Galleons, no matter how stuffed or empty; in fact, no one in Wizarding London had carried a heavy purse full of Galleons since they'd graduated. A magical credit card would only cause mass confusion.

Her argument was for a loan system to be set up—for those who were not blessed to be born into the right circumstances. A line of credit could be life-changing, but Dolohov was not for it.

Then, with a look in his eye, Dolohov had asked if that was the subject of her research with B & V, a question Hermione had not dignified with a response, partially on account of her nature, and partially because her saliva had gone sour in her mouth. A warning courtesy of her new job. Which she loved. Even if she thought their approach to preserving company secrets could be streamlined.

That, really, was the first assignment she had given herself. A better Secret-Keeping Charm. One which worked a bit like a flash drive. The idea was to tie a magical person's memories to a place. Hermione wanted to leave work at work; to only think about her research when she crossed the threshold of her job. To tap into the part of her memory which catalogued her progress in her project selectively. To tie memory to place.

She was nearly eight weeks into her task and had only managed to finish half the incantation, which was not short like most charms, but rather several lines of script. It was a traditional witching spell set to meter. Hermione was not particularly rhythmic, and her ineptitude with music was, in her eyes, the greatest tragedy. Having no rhythm only made it more difficult.

She was the only muggleborn on her floor, and so she was the only one who understood knew memory in terms of convenient storage. RAM. Megabytes. Something to plug in and plug out. Hermione knew no magical analogy to explain what she envisioned in her mind, and no one on the Developement team admitted to being a Legilimens; she would have easily opened her mind up.

At any rate, Hermione thought, it was best not to rush, as the finished incantation would then progress to tests. Something was missing however. There was no way she was creating something new and revolutionary—surely a wizard or witch had invented a similar spell.

She reckoned it must be old old magic. Perhaps it was a device, like an amulet. Yes. An amulet fundamentally was a vessel which contained an intangible force. That was the closest she could come to finding a like concept to a magical flash drive.

And yet, Hermione knew the comparison was imperfect. She was missing something.

At any rate.

It was late.

Crookshanks nudged against her hand, and she stroked him for some minutes before she stood up. Hermione needed to wrap up her hair and smooth some cream on and get to bed.

The wooden floor beneath her feet was pleasantly warm and dry, which was a welcome contrast for the late night London weather awaiting her outside. Tomorrow she would rise bright and early, send out some owls to her contacts abroad, and have a field day. She'd go to Diagon Alley and do some scouting.


End file.
